


i wear your melodies around my neck

by fleuravis



Series: with nothing on my tongue but hallelujah [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bathtub Sex, Blasphemy, Constantly overwhelmed Credence, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Drunk Sex, F/M, Frottage, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, I have no excuse for this, I just liked the idea of Tina as a drummer and Newt as a heartthrob indie rock singer, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Indie Music, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Obsession, Percival Graves is kind of an asshole, Possessive Behavior, Premature Ejaculation, Recreational Drug Use, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Slow Burn, Sugar Daddy Graves, questionable morals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-06-24 02:18:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15620340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleuravis/pseuds/fleuravis
Summary: The server hands Graves another beer and he raises it up to the boy in front of him. “Well then, to the extravagant, reprehensible sin of indie rock music.” He takes a sip, lets out a pleased hum. “Oh, and don’t call me Mr Graves, either. I’m not your fuckin’ grandfather.”--Percival Graves is the bass player of a struggling indie rock band who wants two things: to play music and do drugs. Credence Barebone is a classical guitarist for his mother's church who really just doesn't want to play Jesus Loves Me anymore.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [official fic playlist](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/177326617050/i-wear-your-melodies-around-my-neck-fic-playlist)

"Okay, okay. Let’s just take it from the top again.”

Frustration creases Tina’s face, sweat-shiny bangs sticking to her forehead, drumsticks tap-tap-tapping against her denim clad knees. They’ve been playing the same song again and again for nearly half an hour now; every single time she slips up and makes them all start over.

“Why don’t we just call it a night?” Newt says gently, “There’s no sense in doing this without a guitarist anyway. The timing on the bridge is never gonna make sense without the lead.”

“No, I can _do_ it!” She insists, “Let’s just run it one more time.”

Tina is an outstanding musician, but pride always gets in her way — indignance is an old friend, but Graves is an older one. He has no filter when it comes to Tina.

“You’re too uptight, you’re losing your creative flow,” he declares, slinging his bass backwards over his shoulder. “You have a control problem.”

“And you have a drinking problem!” She counters, throwing a drumstick that narrowly misses his head.

“Jesus _Christ_ , you guys!” Newt seethes, “Cool it down. Tina, you sound fine and we’ll come back to this one tomorrow. Graves, any more emails?”

Ever since their original guitarist, Newt’s older brother Theseus, left town for a more promising job in government, their band — _Macusa_ , named cheekily after Graves’ father’s law firm — has been on the market for someone new. Craigslist has offered up little more than high school kids trying to live their rockstar dream-life and middle aged burnouts who want to play a few more shows before they retire.

Graves waves a hand dismissively, scrolling on his phone with the other. “Same old stuff, you know, no one promising. A few came in this morning but I know most of these guys from high school and I wouldn’t let any of them near our stuff with a ’68 Strat.” He pauses, opening an email. “…actually, this is interesting. _Hello, I am a student of the Ilvermorny Academy of Music, studying classical guitar…_ ”

“An academy kid?” Tina says doubtfully, but Graves cuts her off.

“Could be worth looking into. He says he’s got original material, so he’s not gonna show up and play some anemic Metallica cover like every other fuckin’ hopeful we’ve had. I’m gonna write back. See if he can come meet us tomorrow.”

He taps out a quick response, ignoring Tina’s muttering about Ilvermorny kids being pretentious  douchebags. She carries a very personal resentment, but that’s a subject that even Graves won’t broach.

He hits send, and barely a moment later his phone dings with the sound of a new email. 

 

_Thank you so much for your consideration. I will be there at 6:00 pm._

_C_

 

——

 

The boy arrives promptly, which is unheard of amongst most musicians Graves has known. _Must be a classical thing_ , he muses as he opens the back door of the refurbished warehouse they practice in. 

He’s younger than Graves had expected — most students of Ilvermorny don’t get accepted until they’re at least twenty one, and this kid can’t be much older than eighteen. Graves figures he must be some sort of prodigy if he’s already been there a while. He’s pale and angular, shadowy hollows for cheeks, looking a bit like he belongs in an early 2000s emo band. His black hair is chopped into a blunt and awkward-looking bowl cut, and Graves wonders if it’s intentional or not. Is he really so old already that he isn’t hip to the new wave trends of teenaged music freaks?

“Percy Graves,” he says, extending his hand. “Most people just call me Graves, though. Thanks for coming out.”

“Credence Barebone, sir.” The boy’s voice is quiet as he reaches out and shakes his hand. Cold palm, a light grip. He doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Thank you for having me.”

“‘ _Sir_ ’,” Graves repeats with a grin, “Haven’t heard that one yet. I’m only twenty six, you know. Don’t make me feel so old.”

The boy flushes, but before he can stammer out some awkward response Graves turns on his heel and heads down the hall. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you to everyone else.”

Tina and Newt are sitting on the floor in their practice room marking up chord charts when Graves walks in. 

“Tina, Newt, this is Credence. Credence — this is the band. Tina’s a Girl Drummer, capital G capital D, and that gets us some attention. Newt sings and he’s got the haircut and the accent, so that gets us some more attention. Aside from that, we’re kind of nothing. So it’s all on you, alright?”

Newt jumps to his feet and practically runs over, shaking Credence’s hand and smiling warmly. “Ignore that. So wonderful to meet you, I can’t wait to hear your work. You have some originals to play for us?”

Credence nods, looking a bit overwhelmed. 

Tina greets him with a little more trepidation. “Ilvermorny, huh?”

Graves rolls his eyes. “Don’t mind her, she’s got it out for anyone classically trained. Tina can drum like a fuckin' maniac but wouldn’t know the definition of a polyrhythm if it crawled up her—”

Once again, his head barely escapes the path of a flying drumstick.

Tina is an odd bird, and Graves loves her for it, but the two of them are at each other’s throats more often than not. She’s argumentative and abrasive, never quite pleased with herself or anybody else, but he knows she just wants them to make it somewhere with all of this. He can appreciate the sentiment. He can’t really complain about being an overgrown trust fund kid who sits around playing music all day, but he truly doesn’t have much else to do if this whole thing fizzles out.

“Credence, why don’t you play us something?” Newt interjects, looking pointedly at Graves and Tina. He mothers them but he doesn’t seem to mind, and Graves has taken to labelling all of his equipment with BAND MOM in metallic silver sharpie.

“Oh, right, yeah, okay,” Credence starts, fumbling with his soft guitar case, pulling out what seems to be a knockoff telecaster. Most likely dirt cheap and probably purchased used, with scratches littering the black body. Graves wonders why a kid going to Ilvermorny, the most pretentious and expensive music school in America, can’t afford a decent guitar. But before he can question it too much, Credence plugs into the nearest amp, fiddles with the knobs a bit, and begins to play.

It starts off simple, a fingerpicked melody in a clean but dreamy tone, before he’s soaring into harmonics that run up and down the frets, and he makes it look so fucking easy but Graves knows how truly complex of a piece this kid is playing. Credence is humming along, almost too soft to hear, mouth moving slightly but just enough to suggest some secretive lyrics.

When he finishes, they’re all silent for a beat.

“You wrote that?” Newt says finally.

Credence nods, not looking up.

Graves wonders if Tina is frantically trying to Shazam whatever it is that Credence just played. Even he is having a hard time believing the kid really wrote it himself.

“Well,” he starts, and then pauses, starts again. “Well, I think I’m speaking for all of us when I say that if you want to join us, you’re in.”

Newt and Tina are both nodding along and Credence looks up, disbelieving. “Really? I mean, yes. Yes, of course I do.”

Graves wonders what happened to the kid to make him question his obviously remarkable talent. Anyone Graves has known throughout his career with anywhere near that amount of skill, let alone the natural ability to write like that, wears their superiority complex proudly on their sleeve. _Oh well_ , he thinks guiltily, _that insecurity has gotta make for some real good fuckin’ songs._

 

——

 

“So, tell me, kid. How does a classical guitarist from Ilvermorny end up emailing a Craigslist poster and trying to join some no name indie band?”

Graves and Credence are sitting in a corner booth at the Blind Pig, having a drink after soundcheck. Well, Graves is having a drink — despite his repeated offers, Credence seems to want nothing but water. Even though Graves assures him he won’t get in trouble ( _They all know me, kid, no one’s gonna question it. What are you, eighteen? Nineteen? You can pass. They won’t ask me. Don’t even worry about it, really_ ) Credence seems to be the only nineteen year old, let alone nineteen year old musician, in New York City who doesn’t jump at the offer of alcohol. Graves thinks everyone can use at least one whiskey soda to take the edge off before a set, but it’s the kid’s first show with the band so he won’t push it.

“My mother sent me to audition for Ilvermorny when I was sixteen,” Credence says, “I play for the services at our church. Eventually she’s sending me off on a program to play in churches around America. It’s the only job I’ve ever had, I don’t have time for much else. I’ve been in strict lessons since I was five. I’m just tired of it, I suppose. Theory and all of that. I like the music, I really do. I like any kind of music. I just want to do something more free. I want to play my own songs.”

“She doesn’t let you play your own stuff?” Graves downs the rest of his beer and glances around the room for their server.

Credence shakes his head and his voice lowers as if he’s afraid his mother can hear him, even in this dingy Brooklyn bar at nine in the evening. “She doesn’t even know I write them. She thinks any music that doesn’t come from a hymnbook is disrespectful. It’s a sin.”

Graves lets out a low whistle. “Christ, she’s intense, huh? Real religious. That sucks. What about your guitar? No offence, but you’re so good, you’d think you’d have, y’know…” he trails off. Credence shakes his head with a small smile.

“None taken. She doesn’t know about my guitar, either. She thinks I only play my classical acoustic. I saved up and bought the cheapest electric I could find and I leave it at Ilvermorny. One of my teachers is very kind, he won’t tell her.”

“So you’re a bad boy, then!” Graves laughs, nodding at their server and holding pointing to his glass as it’s swept off the table. He watches a flush rise under the collar of Credence’s black button up and the boy coughs. 

“Why does Tina hate Ilvermorny so much?”

Graves leans back with a sigh. “Don’t ever tell her I told you this, I swear, she’ll murder us both. Tina auditioned for Ilvermorny back when she was twenty one. She and her sister auditioned together. Her sister got in and… and she didn’t. Now, her sister ended up dropping out after a year, cause some A&R guy from a label heard her at one of their vocal showcases. Her career pretty much blew up after that and now she’s this international pop sensation. It’s pretty crazy. But Tina’s never really gotten over it. Her and Queenie are still close, don’t get me wrong, Tina loves that fuckin’ girl more than anything. But there’s always something there, y’know?”

“Queenie is Tina’s sister?” Credence is wide-eyed and practically gaping. Graves chuckles.

“You’ve heard of her, huh? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Yeah, Queenie is actually her real name. Queenie Goldstein.”

“One of the other guitarists at Ilvermorny has a crush on her,” Credence admits, “I overheard him playing one of her songs on his phone. Ma would never let me listen to that kind of music.”

“Right, right,” Graves nods, “I forgot, _Jesus Loves Me_ only.”

He earns a mischievous little smirk for that one, but it’s gone so quickly that Graves wonders if he imagined it. Credence deflates against the plush seat of the booth, looking rather forlorn. “She’s going to kill me when she finds out about this.”

Graves’ smile leaves his face when he sees how serious the kid is. How awful could his mother be? A religious nut, maybe, but who wouldn’t let their virtuoso son have a bit of fun with his talent?

“You know, Credence, we’re going on tour pretty soon. So either you’re gonna have to tell her or just skip town with us and figure something out when you get back. I know it’s easy to come up with excuses for one show here and there, but we’ll be on the road for a few weeks.”

Credence looks so sincere, so earnest, that Graves wants to personally buy him a new guitar and a house to play it in, as much as he wants, whenever he wants. “I know. I’m going to work it out, Mr Graves, I will.”

The server hands Graves another beer and he raises it up to the boy in front of him. “Well then, to the extravagant, reprehensible sin of indie rock music.” He takes a sip, lets out a pleased hum. “Oh, and don’t call me Mr Graves, either. I’m not your fuckin’ grandfather.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this is my first contribution to the fanfic world and it's gonna be a wild ride
> 
> i'll update tags/warnings as we go!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This, here, is his kingdom, his home ground, the life of Percival Graves in one room._
> 
> -
> 
> Credence plays live with Macusa; Graves takes him to his first party.

Macusa only have three rehearsals under their belt before their first show with Credence. After he’d agreed to join, Newt had photocopied their lyric and chord chart booklet and sent him home with fourteen of their songs to learn in a neat little binder. Graves was more than prepared to cut at least five of those from the set, considering the kid is also juggling a rigorous classical training program at Ilvermorny and a lunatic for a mother. But Credence, miracle that he is, had showed up to their first practice playing every song with near flawless precision, hesitating only when he was unsure of what emphasis they were looking for on certain notes and phrases, doing his best to learn every single nuance.

If Graves had been impressed by his diligence at practice, that was nothing compared to what he feels the moment they take the stage at the Blind Pig.

The boy is a natural performer, despite the tension and anxiety that command his body when he moves through the world, causing him to stumble over words when he talks, to hunch his shoulders when he walks. All of that seems to float away when he’s up there; his eyes remain closed but it’s not fear, it’s _feeling_ , though it may take someone like Graves to understand that. Someone who feels it the same way, every chord shuddering through his body, every beat consolidating that of his own heart. Credence has the same spark, the same clear desperation to let that feeling out. Release. After nineteen years of repression, Graves can’t even begin to imagine what Credence will create now that he is, at least somewhat, free. 

He begins to think selfishly, ruthlessly — he wants the boy to himself, in his band, by his side, wants to teach him all about this lifestyle, both the soaring highs of performance and the seedy underbelly of tour. He wants to throw sound back and forth between their instruments before a crowd of thousands, wants to get him high and show him how much fun this life can really be. Teach him that music is not about memorizing the tedious Italian words defining dynamics but about experiencing the dynamics themselves, that it is not about learning every detail of a dead composer’s notation but about figuring out how to meld your own style into that of your bandmates, about locking eyes with them onstage and feeling that connection like no fucking other. Music is not a grid, it is a field, an ocean, a fucking galaxy and Graves wants Credence to have every part of it. 

He’s lost in thought, playing the song on autopilot, something he can do now that he’s been picking out the same bassline for God knows how many years. Credence’s eyes finally open and when they do, their first landing point is on Graves’ own. Graves grins, and for the first time since meeting him, he sees the boy truly smile — unrestrained and bright — as he launches into the final solo. 

The moment they leave the stage, Graves grabs Credence by one skinny arm and tugs him back through a doorway in the backstage hallway. They end up in some kind of storage space, closet, whatever, Graves doesn’t care.

“That was fucking _brilliant_!” He shouts, shaking the boy by his shoulders, “Credence, Christ, fucking Christ, I’m sorry for blaspheming, but you are a genius! A prodigy!” He pulls him into a tight hug, feels the tremors of Credence laughing against him.

“Thank you,” he says, the corners of his lips quirking up, “It felt good. I think we sounded good.”

“Good, you fuckin’ kidding me?” Graves marvels, “That was the best show we’ve played in, like, well… ever. C’mon, we’ve gotta go celebrate.”

“I’m sorry,” Credence says nervously, “I should get going. If I’m home too late, Ma’s going to be really angry.” 

“No,” Graves says firmly, “No fuckin’ way. We’ll figure something out to tell your mom, you were having a sleepover at bible study or something. Come on, we’re loading up and then we’re partying.”

Not giving him another chance to protest, Graves drags him away and back out to the stage. They clear their equipment out fairly quickly — the Blind Pig always has a house kit and PA for bands to use so there isn’t too much to pack up. Once it’s all tucked away in Tina’s van, Graves brings Credence back inside to get their cheque. The place is large for a bar but relatively small for a venue, holding about two hundred people at capacity. _And it must be right about there,_ Graves thinks as he surveys the room. It’s packed, loud and rowdy, and he puts a reassuring hand on Credence’s shoulder as he maneuvers them through the crowd. They’re stopped several times by friends and strangers alike, congratulating and thanking them, asking about future shows and CDs. Credence looks more than a bit overwhelmed, almost faint, and so Graves answers everyone politely but hastily before steering the boy to the bar.

“How’s it goin’, Gnar?”

The man at the bar shakes his head in amazement. “Fuckin’ awesome, Perce. What a show. And you, young man!” He points a stubby finger at Credence. “You are quite a talent. Keep it up.”

“Thank you, sir,” Credence says quietly, his voice almost lost to the roar of the drunken patrons around them. Gnar hands Graves an envelope and Graves thanks him with a nod, tucking it into his breast pocket before guiding Credence out the front door.

It’s chilly outside, Autumn finally beginning to set in. Credence shivers in his thin black jacket and Graves wraps an arm around him as he hails a cab.

“Where are we going?” Credence mumbles, chin tucked into his collar against the cold. “Where are Tina and Newt?”

“Already on their way,” Graves replies, squinting at the newly cracked screen of his phone, “and there’s a party at my friend Jacob’s place. Consider it the after party, and your initiation into the rockstar life.” He grins at the younger boy. “Queenie will be there, actually. I mean, Jacob’s her boyfriend, but maybe I can introduce the two of you.”

Credence’s cheeks turn slightly pinker than the cold has already made them. “I don’t — I mean, Queenie’s very talented, but…”

Graves claps him on the back, laughing, and their cab rolls to a stop at the sidewalk in front of them. 

——

Jacob’s place is packed wall to wall with chattering people, and that’s saying something, considering Queenie’s endless stream of disposable income pays for a ridiculously large apartment that seems impossible in downtown Manhattan. Queenie lives there too, whenever she isn’t off on some international tour — so really, she doesn’t live there very often. She and Jacob are an odd couple but somehow they fit together seamlessly. Jacob is content managing his little bakery on West 57th while Queenie tours Europe, playing sold out shows in arena-sized venues, and when she comes home they go right back to their comfortable little life together, taking walks in Central Park and eating strudels by candlelight. It’s all quite saccharine, far too much so for Graves, whose teeth hurt at the very sight of the fresh-baked donuts Jacob is offering him.

“A little extra something in there for ya, Percy!” He says with a wink.

“I’m content to do my drugs the old fashioned way, but I appreciate the thought, Jacob. How’ve you been?”

“Oh, you know, you know, happy to have her home.” He smiles adoringly at his girlfriend, who’s over in the centre of the room entertaining a circle of girls with what Graves assumes is some wild tale from her recent South American tour.

Queenie looks up and waves, Jacob rushes over to feed her a donut and Graves beckons Credence into the next room. 

 

This, here, is his kingdom, his home ground, the life of Percival Graves in one room. The dim lighting, just two red-tinted lamps in opposite corners, the music, dark and droning, the slow-moving bodies buzzing with drinks and drugs and questionably intimate activities in the shadowed corners. Before he gets too lost in it, he looks over at Credence and sees the uncomfortable expression on the boy’s face. He scolds himself momentarily for forgetting exactly who he’s dragging around this place. Luckily, Newt is just past the threshold, chatting away with a few of their friends in the kitchen.

He gestures to Newt and Credence looks around helplessly before turning and heading in that direction.

Graves drops onto the couch next to Sera, whom he’s relatively surprised to see now that she’s started classes for her next University degree.

“Law school’s cool with the hard drugs now, huh?”

She whips around and laughs when she sees his face, smacking him lightly on the shoulder. “Fuck off, Graves. I know cutting lines is considered a marketable skill in _your_ career path.”

Before he can come up with a retort she’s handing him a rolled up twenty and he’s breathing in enough coke to make his entire head burn. “ _Fuck._ ”

“It’s good,” she mutters, leaning over him to line one up for herself, “I won’t even make you pay me, cause I heard you guys were great tonight.”

“It’s this kid,” he groans, rubbing his tingling nose, “He’s so good, it’s ridiculous. He’s at Ilvermorny, his mom’s some religious freak, doesn’t let him play anything but Jesus songs or whatever. But he sneaks around with a shitty electric and writes these brilliant songs that’ll rip your fuckin’ heart out.”

“Percival Graves,” she chides, “are you in _love_?”

He rolls his eyes. “He’s nineteen, Sera. Jesus, am I not allowed to be impressed and moved by art in a wholesome way? I’m offended.”

He looks up just as Credence appears in the doorway. “Shit, gotta go. I’ll be back.”

Sera isn’t even paying attention, most likely gearing up to rail another line. How that girl has a 4.0 and still somehow spends all her weekends filling her nose with whatever’s available, Graves doesn’t know. It’s impressive to say the least.

“Hey, Cre, how’s it going? You want a drink or something?”

Credence looks at him, wide-eyed. “Mr Graves, are you doing drugs?”

Graves smirks at him. “Yes, Credence, I’m doing drugs. What did I tell you about calling me that?” The coke has got him antsy now, and he’s bouncing in place. “Let me get you a drink. Or a joint. You want a joint? You ever been high?”

“No, no,” Credence shakes his head, frowning. “Of course not.”

“I’m getting you a drink,” Graves declares, “Whether you like it or fuckin’ not. Come on.”

Forty minutes later he’s managed to get three vodka-cranberries into the kid who’s swaying in place, looking around the room with half-closed eyes.

“You okay?” Graves keeps a hand on one slender shoulder, making sure Credence doesn’t fall over or run away or something. He feels himself coming down, and as much as he’d love to bump a few more lines he knows he should probably let himself sober up. 

“I’m okay,” Credence slurs, head nodding slightly, not of his own volition. He tries to take a step forward and nearly tips over. Graves catches him just in time.

“Okay, okay,” he chuckles, “Let’s get you somewhere safe to sleep it off.”

He realizes it’s definitely Credence’s first time drinking, and beyond that he’s a skinny kid who doesn’t eat much — come to think of it, Graves hasn’t seen him eat a single thing all night. Maybe giving him three strong drinks wasn’t the best idea, but what the fuck. He deserves to celebrate.

“I can’t… can’t go home like this.” Credence looks a little panicky, in a slow, drunk kind of way. “Ma’s gonna kill me.”

“I don’t even want to count how many times you’ve said that in the past three days,” Graves mutters, still holding Credence to make sure he stays upright. “Don’t worry, you can stay at my place. I’ve got a pretty big apartment and it’s close. I’ll get a cab.”

When they arrive at Graves’ apartment, which is luckily only on the third floor, he struggles briefly to unlock the door one-handed while still keeping an arm around Credence ( _I can stand by myself, I’m not a baby, he protests, but Graves isn’t taking any chances_ ) and finally gets them inside. Neither one unconscious and neither one vomiting their stomach lining, this is a relatively successful night when compared to Grave’s track record of afterparties.

“I’ve got a guest room,” Graves says gruffly, realizing in the harsh light of the living room how appallingly sober he is. “I’ll get you a glass of water and some Tylenol. Bathroom’s right over there,” he points, “and if you want to shower there’s fresh towels in the cabinet.”

“I think I’ll just go to sleep,” Credence says faintly, still swaying woozily from side to side.

“Alright, c’mon then.”

Graves flicks on the guest room light — luckily it’s perfectly clean and tidy, fixed up after the last time it was trashed at some out of control rager. He waits for Credence to get into bed, figuring he’ll turn out the light for him, and then realizes that Credence is staring, turning redder by the second. Waiting for him to leave before he undresses.

_Oh._

“Shit, sorry,” he mumbles, “I’ll leave you to change, uh, yeah. If you need anything just wake me up, okay?”

 

Once out of the bedroom he waits a few minutes, a glass of cool tap water and painkillers in hand, before going back and tapping on the door. When there’s no response he knocks louder. Still nothing. Slowly, carefully, he pushes the door open. Credence is sprawled on the bed, wearing black boxer briefs and nothing else, skinny bird-bone chest rising and falling with each slow breath. His usually combed down, blunt hair is ruffled and his mouth is slightly open. Graves sets the glass and bottle down quietly on the bedside table. Credence murmurs softly in his sleep, shifting, his long limbs stretching out over the still-tucked bed sheets. _He looks so soft_ , Graves thinks, and then he shakes his head. _What the fuck?_

Graves turns around and leaves the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was gonna hold out a few more days but i'm too excited not to update. 
> 
> enjoy the toothache sweetness for now, there's plenty of angst and sin to come!!
> 
> (i'm on tumblr @cannibalteacups, come say hi)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’s quiet on the car ride, staring out the window, hands shoved into his jacket pockets where Graves can’t see them. But he knows._
> 
> _God, of course he knows._
> 
> -
> 
> Macusa gets an offer they can't refuse, meaning Graves will have to see a face he'd hoped to never see again. Credence is late for band practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note the updated character tag - yikes

Graves is dreaming.

It’s a rare occurrence these days, an unfortunate fact that he chalks up to too many drugs and the simple reality of growing up. As a child, he would wake up every morning with vivid tales of where his unconscious mind had brought him. A once imaginative mind drained of its colour.

Now, though, he’s drifting, eyes failing to focus on the blurry shapes and everything is bright, so bright. The shapes begin to change, transforming and stretching, until he sees a body in front of him, pale and slender, long-limbed and graceful.

“Mr Graves? Mr Graves!”

He wakes with a start, pushing himself up on his elbows. Rubbing his bleary eyes, he finally manages to focus on what’s in front of him. Or whom, rather.

“Credence, Jesus, what time is it?”

“It’s six thirty. I’m sorry for waking you but Ma is going to be so angry. Can you tell me how to get back to Pike Street? Can I walk from here?”

It’s not even seven in the morning, they can’t have slept more than four hours, but the kid is sporting a poorly hidden look of panic and Graves takes pity on him. “I’ll drive you, Credence,” he grumbles, “Just let me get up, okay?”

“No, it’s okay, I can walk, I’m used to it, I—“

“Pike Street is quite a walk from here. I promise I’ll be quick, alright? I’m gonna jump in the shower and grab a coffee and then we can go.”

True to his word, Graves gets himself ready faster than he ever has this early in the morning, even on tour when Tina has to drag him out of bed with five minutes to spare before load-in. Within ten minutes they’re climbing into his red Mazda, much too flashy to comfortably park on the streets in Manhattan, but Graves does it anyway.

“You have a nice car,” Credence murmurs, “Do you have a job? I mean, other than the band?”

Graves scoffs. “As if I’d have the time. Born into money, kid, and it’s not as great as it sounds. I’m a pretty much useless human being most of the time. But it helps that I can buy equipment that we need, and I’ve got a nice bus lined up for the tour.”

“About that,” Credence says nervously, “I still don’t know what I’m going to tell Ma. I don’t even know what to say about last night yet. I’m hoping it’ll just come to me.”

Graves hesitates. “It’s up to you. I’d say try to tell her the truth, about the tour I mean, maybe the day before we leave. Real last minute. If she freaks out, who cares? You’ll be on the road for three weeks and you’ll be fed and have a place to sleep every night. So that’s something, right? Plus, I’m hoping we’ll take home a few grand each. I can guarantee you two, at least. Depends on which venues we can book and whether or not we can get cheap hotels, all that.” Then he adds, “And then if you’re really stuck you can always just stay with me until you figure it out.”

Credence looks at him, moon-eyed, as though no one’s ever offered him such a simple kindness before. “You mean it?”

“Yeah, of course,” Graves smiles, feeling a surge of affection for the kid. He ruffles his hair like he’s a five year old, but Credence doesn’t seem to mind. “You’ve seen my apartment. It’s kind of a waste of space if I’m the only one there anyway.”

Graves drops him off a few blocks away from the church, at Credence’s request. After a goodbye and a muttered _I didn’t realize you lived_ in _the fuckin’ church_ , Graves speeds around the corner, beyond excited to crawl back in his bed and sleep for at least another four hours. He feels a twisting little worry in his gut about Credence returning to his mother, but he’s a smart kid and Graves is sure he’ll come up with a decent lie about last night. He’ll see him later at band practice, anyway.

Graves settles into bed, obnoxiously happy about the prospect of sleep. He can’t have slept for more than an hour, though, when he’s awoken by his ringtone singing shrilly in his ear.

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ who in the absolute fucking hell—“ he fumbles for his phone, knocking it off the bed in the process and cursing loudly, shoving his arm down between the mattress and wall and finally closing his fist around the petulant device. “Hello?”

“Percy! How are you on this fine morning?” It’s Newt’s cheerful voice, and Graves knows something’s up because Newt only ever calls him Percy when he wants something. Though in this case, it may simply be for Graves not to murder him in cold blood for waking him up.

“The fuck do you want?” He mutters, pulling the phone back from his ear momentarily to check the time. 7:38.

“Listen, uh, I just got an email that you might be interested in. Or, rather, that I think you should be interested in.”

“Get to the point, Newt,” Graves groans, far too tired to play nice.

“Well, I got a message from Gellert — Grindelwald, you remember him, right?” Newt sounds hopeful, as if he thinks maybe Graves _doesn’t_ remember him, moreover, doesn’t remember that he fucking _hates_ the asshole.

“Why, exactly, do you think I want to be woken up at 7:30 A.M. to hear about Gellert fucking Grindelwald?”

“He heard that we’re trying to book a tour,” Newt blathers on, ignoring Graves’ profanities, “I guess he saw a video online from the show last night. Thought we’ve really improved on our arrangements, or something along those lines. Deathly Hallows is starting a tour soon, all across America, and their opener just dropped out. He’s wondering if we’d like to join.”

“Newt,” Graves says slowly, “I am going to go back to sleep. That will give you plenty of time to think about what an absolutely terrible fucking idea that is. When I see you at band practice tonight, we can both laugh about how you once thought that was anything _but_ a terrible fucking idea. Okay? Goodnight.”

He hangs up, rolls over, and drifts back into a deep sleep.

 

——

“Absolutely not.”

“Graves—"

“No!”

“But…”

“Have you two gone completely brain dead?”

Graves is lounging on the battered leather couch in their practice space, across from Tina, cross legged on the floor and Newt, perched on the small table by the doorway. It feels very much like an interrogation setup, good-cop bad-cop style, although Graves is certain he can out-bad Tina any day of the week.

“We can’t pass this up,” Newt says gently, “We just can’t. Think about the band. Think about the money. Think about Credence—“

“ _Don’t_ ,” Graves says sharply, and then draws a breath. “Don’t bring him into this.”

“He is in this!”

“It would be a fantastic opportunity for him,” Tina reasons, “It could be a chance for him to get out of that madhouse for good.”

“Gellert Grindelwald is a first class douchebag, and Deathly Hallows is one of the worst bands I’ve ever had the misfortune of hearing.”

“The general public would disagree,” Newt reminds him.

“When has the general public had a decent fuckin’ opinion about anything?”

“Regardless,” Newt sighs, “This would be light years beyond any tour we could pull off. They’ve already done all the booking, all we’ve gotta do is show up, play and get paid. We’ll have our own tour bus. You’ll barely have to speak to him — maybe you’ll have to say _hello_. Is that too much?”

Graves shoots him a look.

Yes, saying _hello_ to Gellert may, in fact, be too much for him to stomach. He’s hated the man since the moment he met him, back on his very first day of high school when the blonde, weasel-faced boy declared to their English class that he was planning on leading a world famous rock band. _What a stupid thing to say,_ Graves had thought and instantly took to disliking him. Since then it’s grown deeper and deeper as Gellert grew up to start Deathly Hallows. They are what Newt much too kindly describes as “radio rock”, Tina dismisses as “formulaic bullshit” and Graves declares to be the most godawful insufferable _trash_ he’s ever heard.

Deathly Hallows has somehow shot up to a moderate level of fame with their intolerable whiny anthems being played on every alternative station in the country. Gellert, of course, is the frontman, taking the stage in a leather jacket with his slicked-back bleach-blonde hair, the emo fucking prince of every seventeen year old girl with a broken heart and too much eyeliner. And he doesn’t care that they’re seventeen, of course, at least not according to every gossip site that mentions the band’s name. Not that Graves is keeping track.

“Hey, Credence knows we’re practicing, right?” Tina interrupts his train of irate thoughts.

“What time is it?” Graves pulls out his phone. 6:30 already. Strange, Credence hasn’t been late yet. Graves refreshes his emails. Nothing.

“Maybe he forgot?” Newt offers.

“No, he wouldn’t forget,” Graves mutters, sending a quick _Where are you?_ email. “Maybe he’s gotta say a couple extra Hail Marys for coming home smelling like alcohol.”

Tina snorts. “Yeah, he’s probably held up at confession. Maybe the lines were long.”

“You guys,” Newt chastises, but he’s smirking. “Credence stayed with you, Graves?”

“In the guest room,” Graves replies quickly, perhaps too quickly, because he gets a raised eyebrow from Tina.

At that moment there’s a frantic knock at the door and Newt hurries over to open it.

“I’m so sorry,” Credence is breathless, panicked, his hair windswept and sticking up on the side, his guitar case slung haphazardly over his shoulder. “I ran the whole way here. I can’t believe I made you guys wait. I’m so sorry.”

“Credence, Credence, it’s alright,” Newt frowns, “Don’t worry about it, okay? Graves has slept through entire practices. Like, several times. It happens pretty often, actually. We didn’t even realize what time it was. We’ve just been talking.”

Relief washes over the boy’s face and he sets his guitar down, smoothes his hair. “Great. Okay. What are you talking about?”

“We’ve been invited on a tour,” Tina chimes in, “A big one. Huge. We’d make tons of money and it would be great exposure. We’re just talking Percy into it, cause he’s got a grudge.”

“It’s not a _grudge_ ,” Graves objects, throwing his hands up. “Fine. Let’s do it. Personally, I think Gellert’s got an ulterior motive, because he always does. There’s no way he just wants to help us out. But whatever, you know I love to say I told you so.”

“Great!” Newt exclaims, apparently ignoring everything Graves had said other than ‘let’s do it’. “I’ll email him back right now. The only thing is that the tour starts next week, so we’re gonna have to leave a little sooner than we planned. I’m sure we’ll be fine though. Credence, you picked everything up fairly quickly. Anything you’re worried about?”

“Other than my mother skinning me alive?” The boy says softly.

Newt looks horrified.

“He’s joking,” Graves clarifies, though he isn’t quite certain about that. “I think we’ll be fine. I’m going to pick up the bus tomorrow, anyway. Tina, can you book hotels?”

“On it. Newt, send the list of dates and cities in the group chat, will you?”

“Right, we’ve got to add Credence! What’s your phone number?”

“Oh, um. I don’t have a phone.” Credence looks on awkwardly, as if Newt is going to scold him for it.

“I’ll get him one,” Graves interjects, only half paying attention, staring at his own phone as it loads up the document Newt had sent.

“A _phone_?” Credence says incredulously, “Mr Graves, you don’t—“

“Can you stop fuckin’ calling me that?”

The boy looks stricken. “Sorry, I…” as Tina and Newt let out a simultaneous shout of “Percival!”

“Damn it, I’m sorry, Credence.” Graves sighs. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. Yes, I’ll get you a phone, and I don’t want to hear another word about it. I have a lot of money that I don’t need. Consider it an act of selfishness because I’m going to need to be able to stay in contact with you while we’re on the road.” He slides his phone into his pocket and stands up, flicking on his amp. “You guys want to run a couple songs?”

The songs are all technically perfect, but Credence is playing differently today — he moves more slowly, not adding as much ornamentation and flair as he usually does. Graves looks over and sees the boy’s left hand flinching every time it moves to a new chord shape.

“You okay, Credence?” He asks as they finish up the third song.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” the boy responds quietly, but when he reaches to move his capo Graves can see a flash of deep red on the palm of his hand.

“What happened to your hand?” He demands, dropping his pick and walking towards Credence who cowers quickly, pulling his hand against his chest.

“Nothing, I burned it, I was just being stupid. I’m fine.”

Graves looks at him for a long moment and then retreats. “Alright. Let’s call it a day, guys. I’m tired. Tina, send me all the confirmations when you’ve booked the hotels and I’ll transfer you some money. Newt, you’re in charge of literally all lines of communication between us and Gellert, cause I’m not saying a word. Credence, you need a ride home?”

It’s really not a question and the boy’s protests fall on deaf ears. They end up back in his car, headed to the corner of Allen and Division where Graves dropped him off this morning. He’s quiet on the car ride, staring out the window, hands shoved into his jacket pockets where Graves can’t see them. But he knows.

God, of course he knows. He should have known from the moment he met the kid, heard the soft and mild voice, saw the way he pulls his body in, as if to not disturb the very air around him. The incessant apologies, the fear, flinching every time Graves speaks too loudly or moves to touch him. Someone is hurting Credence, hurting him badly, and probably has been for a very long time. There’s no doubt in Graves’ mind that it’s the mother, the religious fanatic, using God as an excuse to beat on her harmless baby bird of a son.

It is this realization that wipes away any protests he had, any shred of selfish defiance about this tour. If it means getting Credence out of the clutches of that maniac, he will dine with Gellert Grindelwald by candelight any night of the week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are about to get reeeeeal
> 
> (once again, i'm on tumblr @cannibalteacups - thanks for reading!)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Credence needs absolutely none of these things, but Graves wants him to have them and that’s the end of that._
> 
> - 
> 
> The band heads out on tour; Graves finds out he _really_ likes to buy things for Credence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags updated / i'm so weak for sugar daddy graves

The tour bus Graves picked out is sleek, modern and expensive, but still has enough vintage flair to appease his bandmates and not command too much unwanted attention. He signs for it promptly at nine in the morning, feeling covertly proud of himself for waking up on time. Since there’s already barely enough room for his small Mazda on the street outside of his building, he begrudgingly has the bus parked in a garage until they leave — he coughs up the small fortune in parking fees, three spots’ worth, tips the driver he’d hired ( _was it Norman? Nathan? Something like that_ ) and then heads back out into the brisk October morning.

Hands stuffed in the pockets of his grey jacket, he strolls along East Broadway, resisting the urge to turn onto Pike Street ( _just to look, just to see what’s going on at the church, it is Sunday, after all…_ ) and instead wanders into the Apple Store.

Immediately he turns down help from the associates, nodding politely, awake enough to be upright and moving but not quite ready to deal with overzealous customer service reps. He browses the displays of flashy phones and laptops, smirking inwardly at the thought of buying Credence the glittery pink rubber case hung up next to the row of iPhone 8s. 

The urge to fly overboard burns in his gut. He can already hear the boy’s soft protesting voice, emphatic but weak, and it only makes him want this more — in fact, it makes him want to buy up the entire store, every store on this street, wrap it all in a beautiful bow and place it at Credence’s feet. An offering. An act of contrition.

_I’m sorry for every way in which I will ruin you these next five weeks, I’m sorry for the drugs and the alcohol and the things you will see that you cannot unsee. I’m sorry I can’t protect you and I’m sorry that I don’t want to._

The less Graves thinks about it the better. These invasive thoughts are like mosquitos in his brain, flying in unwarranted and entirely unwelcome. He shakes them away, picking up one of the newest phone models. A shiny silver casing and a tag that boasts every feature you can imagine — full colour LED display, a 12 megapixel camera, facial recognition software, HD video recording, and Credence needs absolutely none of these things, but Graves wants him to have them and that’s the end of that.

He purchases the phone outright without so much as glancing at the number on the tag, opting out of paying in instalments through the phone plan. He wants the thing to belong to Credence, no strings attached. He signs off on a fairly basic plan with unlimited texting and calling — as much as he wants to add every single fucking option available, as much as he loves the thought of overwhelming the boy, he doesn’t want to seem like he’s waving the money in front of his face. So  Graves leaves the store with a replacement iPhone 8 for himself, screen pristine and unmarked, and a brand new iPhone X for Credence sporting a glossy black case to ensure the same fate doesn’t befall the boy. He sets it up when he gets home, adding in his own number along with Newt and Tina’s. Then he returns it to the box and settles in with a beer to watch TV.

No band practice until Tuesday, Graves is free to waste away his time and perfectly happy to do so.

 

——

 

Credence is waiting on the corner when Graves picks him up for practice at quarter to six on Tuesday evening. He’s taken to doing so, though the boy reminds him that it’s not that far of a walk and he can certainly manage it. Graves doesn’t care.

Today, Credence slips into the car with a playful smile that Graves certainly hasn’t seen him wear before.

“What’s up?” He asks suspiciously, rolling off the curb and up to the light.

“Nothing,” Credence muses, “Just excited.”

In three days, they’ll be leaving to kick off the tour, driving seven hours to Pittsburgh for the first show. Graves doesn’t have the heart to tell Credence that he’s not so enthusiastic about the venture himself. So he doesn’t respond, instead passing a plain brown paper giftbag over onto the boy’s lap. “Here you go.”

“What is it?” Credence opens the bag, peering inside, and then closes it again and turns to Graves,looking rather appalled. “How much money do these things cost? Why would you do this?”

“Jesus, nice way to thank me,” Graves mutters, keeping his eyes on the road. “I said I’d get you a phone. There it is. Just open it up, okay?" 

Credence stares at him for a moment longer and then opens the bag again, pulling out the box. He handles it delicately, like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever held in his hands. Maybe it is. He slides off the lid and cradles the phone in his willowy hands.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathes, and then looks embarrassed. “Sorry. I’ve just never had anything like this. I mean… thank you, Mr Graves. Percy. Thank you." 

Graves smiles to himself at the sound of his nickname in the boy’s placid voice. “You’re welcome, Credence.”

 

——

 

Graves wakes up on October 13th with a grocery list of anxieties perched at the edge of his mind, ready to cannonball in at any given second. First of all, it’s Friday the 13th, of course it is, because it fuckin’ _would_ be.  Second of all, he has to finish packing — or, in more accurate terms, throwing all the closest pairs of pants and tee shirts into his suitcase and forcing it shut — because he’s about to get in the tour bus and drive to Pittsburgh in order to play the first show of many with Deathly Hallows. He knows that this involves unavoidable interaction with Gellert Grindelwald at some point today, and that notion alone is enough to make him skip breakfast. And maybe lunch as well. And hopefully starve to death before they even get there. 

Third, and most important of all, he knows that right now Credence is breaking the news to his mother that he’s about to drop his current classes and leave town to go on tour with what she would most likely consider a blasphemous, Devil-endorsed rock band. It’s funny in theory, but Graves’ blood runs red hot when he thinks about the marks on the boy’s hand last week. This is dangerous, and not in the way that it was dangerous to tell his lawyer parents that he was planning on being a full-time musician. Because they just grumbled a bit and then handed him some cash. Credence’s mother is a whole other story.

 

The call comes at five after ten and Graves answers on the first ring. “Credence? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” the voice is quiet and nearly drowned by the sound of passing cars. “Can you come get me?”

“Five minutes, just stay there.”

By the grace of God, Graves makes it there in less, practically screeching to a stop on what has become their regular pick-up and drop-off corner. Credence looks miserable, carrying only his guitar case and a small black backpack, staring at the sidewalk.

“Didn’t go well?”

“I guess I’m going to Hell,” he sighs, and it would be funny if he didn’t sound so convinced.

“Listen, kid…” Graves pauses. He reaches over and puts a hand on Credence’s knee, trying not to swear when the boy flinches. “First of all, you aren’t going to Hell. If one of us is, it’s me. Christ, even Newt would go to Hell before you would. Honestly, of every single person I know, you’re the least Hell-bound of them all. If that makes you feel better.” Credence almost smiles, and that’s slightly encouraging. He’s never been great at the whole sage, inspirational life advice gig. He’s received a whole lot of it that went straight through his head like air through a popped balloon. “Besides, you’re doing what makes you happy. What _you_ want to do. That’s got to be a good thing, right? Just hold onto that. Hold onto the good feeling.”

“Thank you, Mr Graves,” Credence says softly, and Graves doesn’t even correct him this time, just rubs a thumb absently over the boy’s bony knee.

“Do you want to talk about it? About what happened?”

“No, thank you. If that’s okay." 

“Of course it’s okay, Credence.”

Graves parks the Mazda in the parking garage, not willing to risk leaving it on the street for over a month. He locks it up and then leads Credence over to where the tour bus is waiting. It is beautiful, he has to admit, shiny black with silver accents, curtained windows, big enough to accommodate twice as many people as they have. 

“This is ours?” Credence stares at the bus in awe.

“Nothing like the Ilvermorny school buses, huh?” 

Graves unlocks the bus, climbing on and surveying the interior. Okay, so maybe he’d gone a little overboard, but they deserve it. There’s a fully stocked kitchenette, a lounge space with couches built into the walls, and in the back, six bunks with thick blackout curtains hiding them away. There’s even a decent sized flatscreen TV on the wall across from one of the couches. “We might forget to play the shows, it’s so fuckin’ nice in here. "

Credence is running his hands over everything, looking almost reverential. It’s sweet, so childish and unashamed, this wonder at material things. Everything is so new, so astonishing to him. Graves wants to capture the look on his face forever but it would be pretty fucking weird to pull out his phone and take a picture.

“Are you all packed?” Graves asks doubtfully, eyeing the meager-looking backpack.

Credence looks up, broken from his trance. “Oh. Yeah, I mean.” He clears his throat, gesturing to the bag. “I didn’t have much I could bring, I just have a lot of church clothes. So I thought I could buy some clothes for on stage when we get to the first city, I don’t have any money right now but I don’t need to eat too much, if you can just give me the money for my food instead I can—“

“ _Credence_ ,” Graves cuts him off, huffing out a laugh. “I’m not going to have you starve so you can buy yourself some tee shirts. When we get to Pittsburgh I’ll take you shopping, alright? We’ll find you some fancy stage clothes. And I don’t want to hear any arguing,” he adds pointedly when Credence opens his mouth.

“Okay,” the boy says meekly. 

“Ready to go?” Graves jumps into the drivers’ seat and then bursts into laughter at the look on Credence’s face. “What, kid, don’t think I can drive this thing?”

His phone buzzes — “and that would be the driver,” he says with a grin. He tries not to be offended at how relieved Credence looks.

They pick up Tina and Newt, helping them load all their gear into the storage spaces beneath the bus. The driver — _“Abernathy, actually, blame my mother. But you can call me Nate” —_ is a polite man but doesn’t seem to have any interest at all in befriending them along the way. Graves is perfectly okay with that, it’s difficult enough to deal with three people on the road when half the time he’s hungover or exhausted, usually both. 

And then they’re on the road. Credence looks like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Sitting on one of the soft couches, he makes himself small, looking around as if still in wonder of where he is. 

Breaking a new record for how quickly he can drive Graves insane, Newt suggests Monopoly within the first ten minutes of the trip. With Credence admitting he’s never played the game before in all his life, there’s not a single argument Graves can make. Newt is rummaging around in the cupboard before he can even crack open a beer. Newt always likes to play Monopoly the _moment_ they hit the road — he considers it a bonding exercise, Graves considers it nothing but a way to instil some deeply rooted resentment right off the bat.

An hour later they’re engrossed in the game and Credence is winning.

“Jesus, kid, where’d you learn how to strategize like this?”

Tina looks smug. “I told you he’d win. He’s smarter than all of us.”

They’re halfway to Pittsburgh by the time they finish the game, though to be fair it had been interrupted by several stops for food and a couple beer breaks for Graves.

“You drink a lot, Mr Graves,” Credence states as he finishes off his third bottle.

Graves barks out a laugh. “Is that a fuckin’ question?”

“Be nice, Percy,” Newt murmurs, nose buried in the latest Sedaris novel.  

Graves flicks on the TV and moves to sit beside Credence where he’s ended up, back on the couch. “What do you like to watch?

“Ma doesn’t let me watch television,” Credence says nervously, “I’ve only seen parts of a few movies in school. Not a whole lot, though.”

This world that the boy lives in is so foreign, so far removed from anything Graves has known or can imagine. He’s never played a board game, never watched TV, never gone to see a movie… the concept is so alien and Graves wants to show him every little thing he’s missed along the way. But he has to start somewhere, and Tarantino is definitely the right place.

_Pulp Fiction_ seems to both terrify and enthrall the kid. He’s on the edge of his seat, wide-eyed, asking soft questions throughout which Graves answers in depth, having seen this one so many times. Before they know it, the film is over and they’ve arrived in Pittsburgh with two hours to spare before they have to load in. 

Their first stop is their hotel for the night where they check in to two rooms — a Holiday Inn, relatively nice but not too expensive. Then Abernathy drops them off on the main downtown strip to get dinner and goes off to check into his own hotel ( _Probably racking up my credit bill at the fuckin’ Ritz Carlton, Graves laments_ ), assuring them that he’ll be at the venue at five o’clock. Newt and Tina squeal over some Lebanese place, but Graves can’t stand Lebanese food, so he drags Credence along with him to find somewhere else to eat. The boy doesn’t seem to mind either way.

They end up at a cozy Chinese restaurant tucked into the corner of a building, seated at the window table. There’s a tiny vase with a single daisy in the centre. Credence looks entirely overwhelmed by the menu and sinks into his chair with relief when Graves offers to order for him. He gets them both mixed vegetables, noodles and Kung Pao chicken. Handing the menu back to the waitress, he sips on his water and watches the boy’s eyes dart around the restaurant.

“You ever been to a place like this?”

“No, sir,” Credence gives him an apologetic look at the word, “I haven’t really been to any restaurants. At home I mostly just eat soup and bread.”

Graves shakes his head in disbelief. The way Credence describes his home life sounds like a fuckin’ parody, but he won’t say that out loud. Their food arrives quickly and he starts towards his cutlery before realizing the boy hasn’t moved. Credence is slowly flushing pink, looking very nervous.

_Oh._

“Do you want to… say grace?” Graves’ voice is awkward, uncertain.

“Do you mind?” His eyes are pleading.

“Of course not.” Graves smooths his napkin across his lap and places his hands on the table. “Go right ahead.”

Credence reaches over jerkily, taking one of Graves’ hands in his own. It’s cool, a little clammy. He murmurs out a quiet prayer, head bowed over his food. Graves glances around the room and shoots daggers at those who are giving the boy a strange look. Ungrateful fuckers, looking down on someone for having _so much_ appreciation for a fifteen dollar meal. So jaded and set in their entitled ways that they would mock a kid for being thankful for something so simple. He shakes his head and Credence lets go of his hand.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

The meal is delicious, but watching Credence eat is the best part. It’s causing a slight stir in the pit of Graves’ stomach; the boy looks obscenely pleased by every bite of the food. But you would, Graves figures, if you’ve eaten nothing but tasteless soup your whole life and then suddenly your mouth is overtaken by the salty magnificence of Lo Mein noodles. 

After dinner they still have an hour to spare, Tina and Newt having found a place to sit down for coffee, and they walk the busy street until they come upon an Urban Outfitters. Graves smiles to himself, picturing Credence in overalls, maybe slightly ripped. One suspender hanging open. He steers the boy inside, watching apprehension take over his pale face.

“This place is good, we’ll find you some stuff. Maybe just avoid anything that says ‘Bohemian’.”

Credence nods as if he has any clue what that means. Graves heads over to the men’s section, the boy trailing behind, and begins sorting through racks of pants. He holds up a few pairs against Credence, who just stands there awkwardly, and then chooses two and moves on to a display of printed tee shirts. They make their way through the entire section like this and Graves ends up with at least fifteen items slung over his arm. After Credence spends half an hour sheepishly modeling outfits in the dressing room, Graves totes five tee shirts, three button downs, two pairs of black pants, three pairs of patterned boxer briefs, a sweatshirt, a pair of Adidas track pants and a black denim jacket over to the counter, ignoring all of Credence’s objections along the way.

“Don’t listen to the total,” he says sharply, and Credence looks rather miserable when the cashier chimes out: “Nine-thirty even, please!”

He slides over his credit card and smiles at Credence. “Consider it yet another selfish investment on my part. I need you to look good on stage, right? Reflects on me.” The boy doesn’t find it very funny, but he thanks him with the sweetest look on his face and that’s enough for Graves.

Newt raises his eyebrows at the bags he's is carrying when they meet up again, a few blocks from the venue. “Fostering a new persona, Percy?”

“More like fostering a stray,” Tina quips, earning her a glare from Graves. “Cre, you’re gonna go from altar boy to street style overnight.”

“It’s just a couple outfits,” Graves says impatiently, “and something comfortable so he’s not suffering in those stiff pants all day. Abernathy here?”

He is, the tour bus parked just around the corner from the venue. They head over, Graves’ heart sinking with every step. He can see, just off in the distance, the souped-up silver bus with DEATHLY HALLOWS painted on the side. It’s parked on the other side of the street from theirs, so maybe he can cross and avoid walking past. They reach their bus and Graves moves to open the door and drop off Credence’s bags when he hears a familiar voice behind him.

“Well, if it isn’t Percival Graves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gellert is a real fuckin piece of work, i apologize in advance
> 
> (i'm thinking i may start spacing the updates out a little more - i always just get too excited. let me know what y'all think)
> 
> <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Graves had always expected him to be cold but he’s warm, so warm and alive, feverish and drunk, staring at Graves like he’s building the fucking world in front of him._
> 
>  
> 
> -
> 
> On the first night of tour, Graves takes Credence to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> take heed of the new tags and updated rating - this is where we begin our slow descent into hell
> 
> more notes/warnings at the end

“Gellert,” Graves says stiffly, “What a pleasure.”

Considering his inability to conceal the aversion on his face, it must be clear to everybody within a five mile radius that it’s anything but.

“How kind of you to join us on this little, ah, venture,” Gellert waves a hand in the air. “I’m looking forward to seeing you play tonight, Percy.”

Graves bristles at the use of his nickname. Gellert has on his face of flawless congeniality, charming and cool, hair falling perfectly to the side and eyes shining. He’s attractive, of course he is, or else his stupid band wouldn’t have such an appeal. That’s what it’s all about now, anyway. Graves knows the story far too well— it’s the same reason Newt has crowds of girls around him after every show, him and his non-threatening, boyish face and freckled gentleness. The same reason he himself prefers to stay backstage and avoid the fans, why Tina generally sticks with one of them to steer clear of the creepy men who tell her in their ever-condescending tones how _well_ she plays the drums, all the while trying to stare down her shirt.

But while this mask of benevolence hides Gellert’s rotten interior for now, all the skeletons in his walk-in closet will come marching out someday. Graves hopes.

“Yeah, you too,” he responds dismissively, hoping Gellert will leave so he can get on with unloading the equipment.

Newt senses his repulsion and moves to greet Gellert himself, but before he can, the blond man’s eyes have narrowed in on Credence. The nervous boy is currently hiding one step behind Graves, gaze fixed on the sidewalk. “And look who we have here. You’re a very talented young man, I saw you play in a recording from the Pig. How did you find yourself mixed in with these troublemakers?”

Credence clears his throat. “Thank you, sir, I—“

Gellert cuts him off with a disbelieving cackle. “ _Sir_!Oh, isn’t that _sweet_ , Percy, where did you find this one?”

“His name is Credence,” Graves says, feeling sick. He wants to tuck the boy behind him, out of sight, let him live forever in the shadow of Graves’ protection. He doesn’t want Gellert Grindelwald to speak to him, to touch him, to even look at him.

“Credence,” Gellert repeats thoughtfully, “I look forward to hearing you play.”

“Thank you,” Credence mumbles, looking up only for a second. Gellert flashes him a shiny, unnaturally white smile and claps him on the shoulder before turning away and heading into the venue, calling out a _goodbye_ over his shoulder.

“Well, that was okay!” Newt says cheerily. Graves doesn’t even validate that with a response. He drops off Credence’s bags, grabs his amp and bass and heads to the stage door.

 

——

 

Graves has to admit that, despite the nagging feeling of unease that has burrowed into his head since the first sight of Gellert, the show goes exceptionally well. They’re playing at The Rex and it’s at full capacity — looking out over a sea of hundreds is worth a few uncomfortable interactions with that smarmy fucker. Credence is at the top of his game, hitting every single note, toying with some of the pedals Graves plugged into his board, even singing harmonies with Newt on the choruses. His voice is sweet and soft, blending perfectly with the British man’s. You’d never know the kid is playing the cheapest guitar he could find, channelled through whatever house amp is available. He could probably convince anyone that he'd just scratched it up on purpose, trying to cast an edgy vibe on some top-of-the-market collector’s instrument. Graves can hardly begin to wonder what Credence would sound like on a quality guitar.

After their set, they all sit together at the bar to watch Deathly Hallows. Graves’ distaste is practically painted on his face but he has to play nice and support the band that brought them on this tour, at least on the first night. Surprisingly, Credence agrees to Graves’ offer of a drink, opting for a vodka cranberry. Graves wonders if it’s because that’s the only thing the boy has ever tried, that one night at Jacob’s party. It’s a sweet thought, though he’ll have to introduce him to some finer cocktails in the future.

Sipping his drink through a tiny straw, Credence watches the stage curiously.

“They’re not very good,” he says in such a sincere tone that Graves can’t help but snicker. “I guess I can understand it. But I don’t really like it.”

“You’ve got good taste then, kid,” Tina says dryly, picking up her second vodka soda of the evening.

Graves, having long ago lost count of his beers, has moved on to a Jack and Coke. He’s pleasantly buzzed, not quite drunk yet but hoping to get there. At least it will make the rest of the night more bearable. It’s already eleven and the band has only just started.

By the end of their set, which Graves could swear dragged on for fucking _hours,_ Credence is blinking dreamily at the stage, most likely more enamored with the colourful lights than the band. Graves hopes so, at least. He’d talked Credence into another two drinks, each one less pink than the last, quietly ordering doubles to his tab. The more tipsy the boy gets, the more comfortable he is, and Graves really just wants to hear him laugh.

Through haze and smoke and bright stage lights, the night seems to stand still in wait for their next move. There are no afterparties to attend, Graves doesn’t know a single person in Pittsburgh, and he would suggest going to another bar but he can tell Credence is getting sleepy. He’s got his face resting on his hand, elbow propped up on the bar, eyes only halfway open.

“You wanna get back to the hotel?”

“Hm?” Credence starts, looking up. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. I’m so tired.” He laughs softly and Graves’ heart skips at the sound. Not that Graves would ever in his _life_ admit to that. He feels like a fucking teenage girl — it must be the two sips of sangria that Tina forced into him. Credence slips off of his barstool and tugs on his jacket, yawning into his arm.

It’s a short walk to the hotel, just five or six blocks, and they chatter all the way. The day Credence had first walked through the door of their warehouse, Graves couldn’t have possibly imagined the boy joking and giggling the way he is right now. He leans into Graves as they walk, looking up at him reverently whenever he tells some dry, sarcastic joke about the sound guy’s incompetency or Deathly Hallows’ chronically stupid lyrics.

For as long as Graves can remember, it’s always been an unspoken agreement that Tina and Newt will share a room — their quiet flirtation and prolonged gazes are nothing new, and though it’s never been addressed Graves has always known there’s something there. The less Graves knows, the better. He’s just glad that their engrossment with each other and their own sleeping arrangements overshadows any questions they may have about what that means for Credence and himself. Though he isn’t quite sure what it _does_ mean. Newt and Tina hurry into their room, his hand on the small of her back, and Graves swipes the key to their own.

There’s only one bed, although it’s king sized. 

“It’s all that was left, we booked a little late,” Graves apologizes, but Credence doesn’t seem to care at all. He falls back onto the deep red comforter with a sigh, stretching out his long, pale limbs. Graves allows himself a moment to appreciate the view before he turns into the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face.

When he comes back out, Credence is already asleep. God, the kid’s a fuckin’ narcoleptic, this is the second time he’s fallen asleep in a matter of seconds while Graves’ back is turned. The image is sweet, but he’s spread out across the entire bed, and there’s no way Graves is sleeping on the tiny couch by the window.

Feeling too awkward to wake him, Graves tries to nudge Credence over to the other side. The boy whines softly and the sound is like a stab to Graves’ gut. _Jesus fucking Christ._

“Credence, you gotta move,” he mumbles, “Come on, get up. Get undressed, don’t sleep in your jeans.” He’s sporting one of the outfits Graves bought for him today, a pair of tight black jeans and a white Radiohead shirt falling loosely across his skinny chest. As lovely as he looks, it can’t be very comfortable.

“Sleeping,” the boy slurs, turning his face into the pillow.

“Credence, no offence, but get your drunk ass up or I’m rolling you off the bed.”

With quite a bit of grumbling, he does, pushing himself up onto his forearms, yawning loudly and then getting up on unsteady feet, blinking at Graves. “You look nice.”

Graves chuckles. “Thanks, Credence. You’re pretty drunk, aren’t you?”

Credence frowns. “Aren’t you? Sorry, Mr Graves, but I think I saw you having a lot more than I did.”

“Still manage to call me Mr Graves when you’re wasted, huh? Yeah, I’m drunk. But I’ve been getting drunk since I was fourteen, so I’m a bit better at handling myself than you are.”

Credence ignores the jab, struggling to pull off his jeans. He finally manages it, socks too, and falls back onto the bed. “This is the comfiest bed I’ve ever slept in,” he declares.

“You must have been sleeping on a fuckin’ rock in that chapel, then.” Graves shuts off the light and gets into bed on the other side.

“I don’t _sleep_ in the _chapel_ ,” Credence smirks, rolling over to face him. “Are all the hotels like this one? I wish I could sleep in this bed every night.”

“Pretty much the same,” Graves says softly, resting on his side, watching the boy curiously. He can just make out the edges of his features in the dark, his sharp cheekbones, wide eyes, full lips. Credence usually can’t hold a gaze for longer than a second, seemingly terrified of eye contact, always darting around anxiously. 

Now, though, he stares right back. 

“Sometimes I sleep with my little sister when she gets scared,” he says in a near-whisper. “I tell her stories if she can’t sleep. I don’t know a lot of stories but I make them up. She thinks I’m such a good brother for taking care of her, but I have nightmares, and being with her makes it better. Sometimes I’m the one who’s scared, even more than she is."

Graves can see the little sparks of guilt playing at the boy’s expression. He knows, deep down, that he probably won’t be returning to that house. To his sister. 

“Do you always have nightmares, Credence?”

He shakes his head. “Not always. Just sometimes.”

Graves reaches out and runs his hand through the blunt-cut fringe, plastered to the boy’s sweaty forehead. Graves had always expected him to be cold but he’s warm, so warm and alive, feverish and drunk, staring at Graves like he’s building the fucking world in front of him. His hand runs down one soft cheek and Credence leans into his touch, nuzzling at his hand. When he reaches the boy’s pale throat Credence's lips part, drawing in a tight breath, and that’s it.

_That’s it_.

“Credence,” Graves breathes, and the boy sighs, and then Graves is closer, so much closer, nose to nose, forehead to forehead. 

“Mr Graves,” he whimpers, and Graves stomach twists, lurches, burns with need. He closes the space between them, finally pressing his mouth to the boy’s, closed and chaste. He holds onto the innocence, the unadulterated sweetness for a moment before deepening the kiss, opening his mouth and dragging his tongue along Credence’s teeth, urging them apart.

The boy moans into his mouth and Graves almost loses his shit. He surges forward until he’s half on top of him, pushing one thigh between Credence’s legs. Credence stalls nervously at first but then slowly he begins rolling his hips against Graves’ leg, making tiny little panting sounds into his mouth. No experience, this is a natural drive — clumsy and unrefined, no performance, no bravado, simply bare need and desire.

Graves pushes his leg more firmly, giving Credence better leverage, half-hoping in some dark part of his mind that the boy will come like this, premature and unintentional, the lamb to slaughter. The virgin sacrificial.

“Percy,” Credence gasps, “Percy…”

Graves tilts his face down slowly and kisses Credence, open-mouthed and wet and soft, tongue pushing lazily into the boy’s mouth. He tastes like cranberry juice and alcohol. It’s intoxicating. His hand slips down between them, ghosting over the boy’s black boxer briefs before cupping him softly.

Credence melts. He shudders. His hands move from Graves’ face down to the neck of his shirt and he grips so hard and his mouth opens wider against the older man’s and — 

“ _Baby_ ,” Graves whispers. In awe. In worship.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Credence moans, practically a sob, burying his face in Percival’s neck, still clutching his collar, still shaking, his hips stuttering to the end of his immature orgasm. 

And Percival’s small victory, the warm wetness seeping through the front of Credence’s underwear, is the boy’s own little tragedy, the monumental humiliation, universal, no matter the trauma of his past and regardless of his knowledge on the matter. Graves marvels at Credence’s embarrassment, the flush at the base of his neck and the way the tip of his nose presses into the older man’s collarbone, hiding from the evidence of his juvenile pleasure.

“Shh,” Graves murmurs. “I’ll teach you. I’ll teach you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> graves and credence are both a lil drunk in that last scene but i consider it consensual, just a general warning if that kinda stuff freaks you out
> 
> anyway, as graves might say, it's all downhill from here fuckers


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The sight of him, cross-legged on the messy sheets, wearing only Graves’ shirt, pushing strawberries into his mouth with far too much enthusiasm is absolutely unbearable._
> 
> \--
> 
> Graves deals with the consequences of the first night on tour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so ... (as of right now) there are going to be 12 chapters.
> 
> we're halfway there!! sorry in advance for the angst

For the first time in his life, Graves wakes with the sun. 

Momentarily, the previous night’s events are lost to him and he knows only the bright glow of morning through the extremely ineffective curtains, the faint sound of Credence’s breath next to his head.

Credence.

_Oh, fuck._

Graves slips out of bed gingerly, careful not to disturb the sleeping boy. He squints at the digital alarm clock next to the bed. 8:27. How the fuck is he awake?

He pads across the room and into the bathroom, closing the door with a barely audible _click._ Finally alone and out of earshot, he lets out a curse in a long hiss. What had he been thinking? Of course, he hadn’t been, not at all, because absolutely no excusable train of thought could lead to Graves deciding it was a good plan to stick his tongue down the throat of a _teenager_ , let alone to fucking dry hump him til the kid came in his pants in their shared hotel bed. Jesus Christ, the first night of tour and already Graves is done for. Tina is going to have his head on a stake before noon.

He sits on the closed lid of the toilet, head in his hands, trying to piece together exactly what had happened. Credence had been drunk, quite a bit of vodka in him, and Graves had been drunk too, after a long day of beer followed by a night of whiskey. Tina and Newt had slipped away into their own room. Graves had gotten into bed, Credence as well… and then?

And then.

He stands up and stares at himself long and hard in the mirror. Eyes weighed down by pale purple rings, yesterday’s stubble still persisting around his jaw, hair an absolute mess. Looking like a fucking car wreck. He gets in the shower and by the time he’s out has decided on the only sensical course of action: plausible deniability.

Credence is awake when Graves walks out of the bathroom, white hotel towel wrapped around his waist. He smiles, a sweet, innocent thing, carefully placing his phone down next to him on the bed. “I figured out how to download games.”

“Good for you.” Graves tosses him a room service menu from the desk. “I’m gonna order breakfast, you can get whatever you want.”

Credence, clearly not familiar with the concept, looks dubiously at the laminated booklet. Graves has no patience for his trepidation today. “Seriously, order something or I’m getting you oatmeal.”

“That’s what I usually had for breakfast at home,” Credence admits, and that one knocks Graves down a level.

“Pancakes,” he declares, “and waffles. And fruit.” He calls up room service, places the order, and then heads back into the bathroom with his clothes in hand. Shuts the door behind him. However confused the boy may be, it’s nothing compared to the dread that’s settling in Graves’ stomach. He takes his time getting dressed, shaving and combing his hair, and breakfast has arrived by the time he’s out of the bathroom. Credence is at the door, wearing just his underwear and — Graves’ white button down shirt, he realizes with a sinking feeling. 

It’s slightly too big for Graves himself and therefore much too big on Credence, and he’s wearing it open, draped over his shoulders, sleeves pushed up around his elbows. He thanks the concierge while Graves looks on, mute. Credence smiles at him and carries the tray over to the bed.

The sight of him, cross-legged on the messy sheets, wearing only Graves’ shirt, pushing strawberries into his mouth with far too much enthusiasm is absolutely unbearable.

“Take off my shirt,” Graves mutters, unable to look him in the eye.

“Hmm?” Credence replies, a bite of Belgian waffle smothered in whipped cream and berries perched at his lips, drops of pink juice already blemishing the sheets by his folded knees.

“Take off my shirt,” he repeats, “You’re messy. You’ve already stained the sheets. Besides, I didn’t give it to you, did I?”

Credence drops his fork. “Sorry,” he whispers, “I just thought…”

“I didn’t buy you enough clothes?” Graves counters, “Do you not have anything to wear?”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Credence says again, looking crestfallen. He tugs the shirt off, wrapping his arms around his skinny body defensively. Protectively. Graves pretends not to notice near-faded bruises. Silver scars. It’s all too much.

“It’s okay, Credence,” he sighs, “Let’s just forget about this, okay? All of it.”

Before the boy can respond, Graves grabs a plate of pancakes, pulls out his phone, and disappears into a world of emails and map routes. Credence tugs on a fresh tee shirt and stares down into his plate of barely-touched waffles. He looks like he’s going to cry. 

Mercifully, at that moment there’s a knock on their door. Graves has never been more grateful for Newt’s unsolicited wake up calls.

Tina and Newt scamper in, both looking suspiciously fresh, joining Credence on the bed. Newt plucks the toasted bagel from the tray and Tina picks strawberries off of Credence’s waffles. He pushes the plate over to her with a sheepish smile. “Not hungry.”

Graves walks the room, making sure they haven’t left anything behind, and soon enough they’re on the road again. Their next stop is Cleveland, only a couple hours away, and they arrive with hours to kill before load in.

Newt flips through a _What To Do in Cleveland_ brochure, Tina scoffs at the Rock ’n’ Roll Hall of Fame, and Graves really just wants a drink. He tells himself he’ll wait ’til two, at the very least. They end up at some tiny, independent gallery downtown, and that’s just great, cause now Graves has to pretend to be impressed by the same fucking painting of a flower twelve times.

Credence gravitates toward Newt, and that’s just fine, because Graves can’t stand to look at the kid right now anyway. The nervousness he’d found endearing is just annoying today, and Graves finds himself bristling at the sight of his awkward movements, impatient at the sound of his stuttering. It isn’t fair and he knows it, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Gellert is waiting outside when they reach the venue, leaning against the side of the building with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He smiles in greeting, immediately zeroing in on Credence.

“You were amazing last night,” he bellows, “Consider me impressed. Will you join me for dinner before soundcheck? I’m sure your bandmates won’t mind setting up your guitar.”

Credence’s first instinct is still to look to Graves, who shrugs at him. _I don’t care_. He does.

“Yeah, okay.”

The boy follows him down the street, around the corner, out of sight. Graves feels rage bubbling up beneath his skin, untameable and completely his own fucking fault. There’s no way he’d let the kid go with Gellert if things had been normal, but they aren’t, and that is once again his _own fucking fault_. He fumes as he carries equipment up the steep back stairs to the stage, his brain ringing out a mantra of hatred towards that no-good blond weasel of a man. He can’t stop imagining Gell and Credence sitting at a candlelit table, tucked into the corner of some expensive and romantic restaurant, though he knows the idea is ridiculous. He suddenly regrets taking the boy to a cheap Chinese diner instead of a Michelin three. His mind projects an image of Credence being served plates of tiny delicacies with names he can’t pronounce from places he’s never heard of. He knows his desires are selfish; the boy would much prefer that ten-dollar bowl of noodles any night of the week, enough to fill his belly, keep him running.

 

Credence doesn’t show up until ten minutes before their set, breathless and apologizing profusely.

“I had to soundcheck your guitar,” Graves informs him, monotone.

Credence offers more apologies but no explanations, quickly tucking his striped button down into the waistband of his pants. He smooths his hair, an unconscious tick since it’s never a strand out of place.

They play well, of course, they’re tight and in tune as always, but the spark just isn’t there. It’s in Credence’s face, it’s in Graves’ gut, but it doesn’t flow between them. Their light doesn’t quite reach each other. 

Credence opts to watch Deathly Hallows’ set from side stage rather than the secluded table in the back that Graves had scoped out for them. Tina and Newt reassure him, dismissing his grunts of _I don’t know what’s going on with him_ and reminding him that Credence is his own person, specifically a person who has never had a life of his own or any sort of freedom, and that he has the right to explore this new world in his own time.

“I trust Credence. I don’t trust Gellert. I never have and I never will.”

“Gellert may be an asshole, and a poser, but that doesn’t make him evil,” Newt says gently, “He seems to really be interested in Credence. I’m sure the poor kid isn’t used to it, maybe he could use some positive attention."

“ _I’m_ interested in Credence!” Graves cries out indignantly, “He’s not getting enough positive attention from me?”

Newt winces and Tina interjects. “You’re mean, Graves. You snap at him. Yeah, you drive him around and pamper him with gifts, but I think he'd appreciate some patience a lot more.”

Graves opens his mouth to argue but admits defeat before he begins. There’s no way he can explain to Tina and Newt the vicious battle currently taking place between his morals and his apparently out of control desires. They’re his best friends, he would trust them with his life, but he can’t trust them with this. 

By the time the band is finished playing Graves is exhausted and offensively sober. Getting back to his warm hotel bed sounds a lot more enticing than alcohol at this point, so he heads through the back stage entrance to get Credence.

“I’m, uh, I’m going to hang out with Gell for a bit.” The boy’s mask of casual indifference does a poor job of disguising his fear at Graves’ reaction. “He wants to talk to me about Ilvermorny. Can you give me a room key?”

Graves is dumbstruck, so much so that he wordlessly hands over one of the blue key cards and turns away. He’s still holding his breath by the time he reaches Tina and Newt. They both ask after Credence but Graves remains silent, grabbing his coat and storming out of the venue. Neither say another word to him as they make their way to the hotel, falling back and speaking in hushed tones. Graves can feel their eyes on the back of his head. It doesn’t matter. None of it does.

Before getting into bed, Graves throws his pride out the window and sends Credence a simple text.

_Hope you’re okay. Wake me up if you need anything when you get back. Goodnight_

By the time he falls asleep, there’s still no response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so ... writing graves in this chapter made me cry a bit. poor lil cre just wants some love :(
> 
> will the angst let up? stay tuned
> 
> <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Graves is frozen in place, half wanting to storm the room and murder Gellert Grindelwald with his bare hands, half wanting to run away, down the hall and out of the venue, out of Texas, out of the country, as far as he can possibly get._
> 
> \--
> 
> Keeping Credence on his side isn't as easy as Graves expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i put together a lil post of all the clothes graves bought for credence back in chapter 4 just cause i like to visualize all that stuff - if you're interested, [ here it is ](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/177205105700/)

When Graves wakes, the room is silent. The alarm clock reads 10:46, a much more reasonable time for him to be getting up. Tina and Newt must be just as exhausted if they haven’t yet bounded into his bedroom. That, or they’re… Graves stops the train of thought in its path.

Yawning, stretching, he pats the bed next to him for his phone, reaching across empty bedsheets and —

Credence didn’t come back last night.

“Fuck,” he hisses, stumbling out of bed and pulling on his pants. In a matter of seconds he’s out the door with his shirt still only half-on, knocking on the door across the hallway with one hand, swiping open his phone with the other. No text from Credence. Two from Newt:

_Getting breakfast across the street, didn’t want to wake you up. Come meet us when you’re ready._

_BTW are you with Credence?_

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._ How had he let this happen? 

He goes back into his room, rounding up his clothes and stuffing them into his bag. Brushes his teeth for thirty seconds and splashes water on his face. Hits the CALL button on Credence’s contact. It rings four times and goes to voicemail, he tries again. No answer. Just as he’s about to punch a hole through the wall, he hears the telltale beep and click of the door being unlocked.

Credence looks like a zombie. Pallid and sickly, his eyes hollow, skin tinted slightly more blue than usual. His eyes are hooded, his hair is unkempt and it looks like his lip has been bleeding.

“Jesus fucking _Christ,_ Credence, are you okay?” Graves crosses the room in three strides, grabbing the boy’s arms, peering into his bloodshot eyes.

“I’m fine,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I just stayed up too late.”

“Were you drinking?”

“Would it bother you if I was?” The boy retorts, “Am I only allowed to drink what you give me?”

Graves lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Where’d you get the attitude, Cre? Gellert manage to crawl up under your skin that fast?”

“Not at all,” Credence replies, shaking Graves off and stepping into the bathroom. “Is there any breakfast?”

“You’re a big boy, you can certainly get some.” Graves flips the switch to cool disinterest in a split second. “Newt and Tina are across the street.”

Credence comes out of the bathroom, hair brushed back into place, and gives him a strange look. They lock eyes for a moment, each daring the other to break the silence, to come forth with an accusation, an acknowledgement, anything. But neither one of them says anything, and Credence turns to the door.

“Credence.”

The boy turns back only halfway, lips pursed together, eyes on the floor.

“Where did you sleep last night?”

Credence walks out of the hotel room, leaving Graves standing in the middle feeling like he has one arm outstretched, reaching into nothing.

 

——

 

After that morning, oddly enough, things seem to return to the way they had been before. Credence is his usual gentle self, still in awe of the simplest things, making his quiet little jokes and eating dinner with Graves before every show. Each set is better than the previous, though only technically. There is still something off, a little itch that Graves can’t put words to, a force field around the younger boy, Graves never quite breaking through despite his efforts. He convinces himself that he’s imagining it, because Newt and Tina don’t sense a single thing wrong. Though that may be because they’re too busy making out in the tour bus when they think Graves is off drinking, as he had so rudely intruded on this afternoon. 

It’s been a little awkward, since then. 

Credence is frustratingly, maddeningly sweet. He smiles at Graves every time he enters a room, eyes crinkling up nearly closed, sometimes showing a hint of crooked teeth. He does things for him, little things, bringing him coffee or setting up his bass while Graves grabs a beer. He returns to their hotel room with him every night but stays on his own side of the bed, on a separate one if they’ve managed a double room. The only real difference is that he’s always on that fucking _phone,_ and Graves is beginning to regret the gift. He would never have bought it if he knew the boy was going to use it to be in near constant conversation with Gellert Grindelwald.

And that’s what it is, he knows, of course he knows. Sometimes he glances over and the kid is captivated by a game of Angry Birds and his heart warms a little bit, watching the wide-eyed concentration and movement of his lithe fingers. More often than not, however, the screen is open on a text conversation and Graves looks away, not wanting Credence to know that he’s watching.

It's four weeks into the tour and he's beyond tired of this game, whatever it is.

The boy has changed, and Graves knows it’s selfish to expect that he wouldn’t. When they’d first met, Credence was awkward and afraid, stumbling through life and accepting pain as a punishment for his very existence. Now he’s growing into himself, figuring out that he’s not quite the burden that he’s always believed. He still remains as thin as ever, though Graves has been plying him with fast food and Chinese noodles constantly, making sure the boy remains sated. His hair has grown out somewhat, a shaggier version of his previously harsh cut. Now that he’s properly dressed, not wearing the too-small church clothes his mother had consistently forced upon him, he looks like the image of a band boy, svelte and pale, dark and brooding. Tight black pants and button ups or tee-shirts that cling to his slender form. 

Along with this comes a phenomenon that Graves hadn’t thought to consider, but now finds very amusing: the fan-girls. Girls have begun to gravitate towards Credence after shows, although they seem to pick up on his aura of unease and therefore aren’t quite as forward as they are with Newt. Instead, they huddle at safe distances, giggling and watching him. Sometimes, one brave girl will approach, and Credence will smile awkwardly, maybe even take a photo with her. He always looks a little bit like he wants to jump out the nearest window, but his confidence is growing, and Graves is sure that this attention helps. Of course it will take much more time to undo all the damage that’s been done, but at least he smiles now, at least he doesn’t apologize so much for being around, for taking up space. Graves only wishes this newfound contentment didn’t come at his expense and at the benefit of Gellert Grindelwald.

Credence’s relationship with Gellert happens only in private, but Graves knows that it’s there. The boy will disappear suddenly between sets, after shows, never for long enough to draw serious suspicion, only enough for Graves to sink deeper and deeper into helpless rage. Gellert is smug as always, making little comments intended to provoke him — “Did you know Credence got into Ilvermorny when he was only sixteen?” _Of course he fucking did and of course I fucking know that, you slimy rat._ “That boy of yours is certainly talented…” _Don’t you dare fucking drift off like that, don’t you dare make implications, I’ll cut off your hands, Gellert, I’ll cut off your —_ and they succeed, though Graves would sooner die than let him know. 

He can’t say a word about it because there’s no evidence. He’s never even seen them together and he sometimes wonders if the whole thing is a paranoid delusion that he’s fabricated in his own head, using it to justify his purposeful distance from the boy.

Until —

The first thing Graves hears are harsh whispers, though he can hardly make them out. He’s headed down the hall backstage at the venue in Austin, his original mission to get his phone from their dressing room forgotten entirely. The sound is coming from Deathly Hallows’ room, the door slightly ajar.

Graves holds his breath, taking a slow step closer, his foot falling silently on the hardwood floor. 

He thinks he can hear the sound of someone crying but he isn’t sure.

Finally, he moves close enough to tilt his head, peer through the two-inch crack in the door. His stomach sinks and he nearly loses his balance.

Credence is sitting on a black leather couch in the centre of the room. He’s shirtless, his upper half bare and curled up, and he’s crying softly. Gellert is whispering but it’s angry, cruel — Graves strains to hear, only picking up a few scattered words.

“ _I told you_ … _if you needed_ … _stupid boy.”_

Credence sobs, the movement running through his body, bringing a hand up to wipe his eyes.

The crack rings out in the room when Gellert slaps him. Graves nearly drops.

Credence flinches in shock, lips parted, his right cheek an angry red. He’s shaking, tears still staining his face, but the look in his eyes is vacant. Empty. Graves is frozen in place, half wanting to storm the room and murder Gellert Grindelwald with his bare hands, half wanting to run away, down the hall and out of the venue, out of Texas, out of the country, as far as he can possibly get.

Graves slowly, carefully, quietly backs away. Moves like a shadow of a ghost down the hallway and into Macusa’s dressing room. It’s deserted, silent save for the slow dripping of the faucet in the bathroom sink. Scanning the room for his phone, he sees one on the countertop light up with a new message, but it isn’t his own. It’s Credence’s.

He feels a brief flash of anger. A month ago, there would have been no way the boy would let this phone out of his sight. He’d been so grateful, so precious with it, never leaving it out, always making sure to tuck it safely into his pocket or bag. Has he really become so jaded and disinterested? Graves shakes away the thought and only hesitates for a moment before picking it up, swiping the screen to unlock the phone. Credence hasn’t put a password on it. Graves’ anger is flushed out by a surge of sadness for the boy. He’s so trusting, so soft, it makes Graves’ heart ache.

The new message is from Newt, and Graves sees that it was sent in their group chat:

_Me + T going to eat. See ya later :)_

Graves sinks into the old couch against the wall of the room, tapping to return to Credence’s inbox. There are few conversations there: their band group chat, private texts with himself, Newt and Tina, and then of course: _Gellert._

Steeling himself, gulping down a slow breath, Graves opens the conversation. Scrolls up a bit until he reaches texts dated about a week ago. 

 

_Meet me by our bus after the set. 11:30._

_I can’t. I’m sorry. I have to go back to our hotel._

_You will meet me there or I will not continue to help you._

_I think Percy is getting suspicious. I don’t want to upset him._

_Selfish boy. Think of everything I’m doing for you. Pathetic._

 

Graves’ fingers are trembling as he scrolls. What are these secret meetings? What is it that Gellert is doing for Credence? The conversations only get more fraught — not the sweet nothings and romantic words Graves had expected, he has to admit. No, this is straight up bullying: Gellert making demands, and when Credence doesn’t meet them, insulting and belittling the boy. The more he reads, the more his blood boils. He exits the messaging app and sees the home screen is full of other downloaded apps, mostly games: Angry Birds, Mario, Fruit Ninja, Pacman. Graves melts a little bit. 

There is one app that seems to be for file storage. He clicks to open it and sees a folder titled _SALEM_. Inside, there are eight mp3s and a word document. He hits play on one of the mp3s before opening the text file.

The sound of rich, dreamy guitar tones ring out loud from the small phone’s speakers. Graves hastily pulls his earbuds out of his pocket and plugs them in. The song starts with simple fingerpicked guitar and then — a voice. Soft but full, one that Graves has only heard in the undertones of Newt’s.

The text file seems to be lyrics and Graves reads along as Credence sings. They are beautiful, poetic and evocative, simple but powerful. The music itself is haunting, achingly tender but soaring all at once. Graves stops reading, rests the phone on his leg and instead just _listens._ Tears come all too quickly and Graves could swear he hasn’t cried in years, not until now, not until —

Credence.

“What are you doing.”

It’s not a question. It’s cold, and Credence’s voice trembles when he says it. Graves pulls the earbuds out, looking up to see the boy standing in the doorway. He isn’t hunched, but stands tall, defiant.

“Credence, I’m sorry, I—“

“Why do you have my phone?” As quickly as it had come, the rebellion is trickling away, his voice dying down into a whisper. Shaky. Still a fading pink tinge on the side of his face.

“Here.” Graves gets up, passes over the phone. “Can we sit down?”

Credence nods wordlessly and they sit down at the small table in the centre of the room. The boy won’t look him in the eye, staring at his hands.

“Credence, I read some of your texts with Gellert. And I saw what happened earlier in his dressing room. I need you to tell me, please, just tell me what’s going on, because it isn’t okay, he’s _abusing_ you, I can—”

“You have no right,” Credence says, his voice becoming stronger again, pulling itself up on anger alone. “You have no right to spy on me, to follow me, to take my phone…”

“Do I need to remind you who bought that phone? Who pays the fucking monthly bill?”

Credence looks like he’s been slapped for the second time today. He stares at Graves for a moment and then slides the phone across the table. “Take it.”

Graves sighs. “Don’t be a child, Credence.”

“No, take it,” the boy insists, practically shouting now, his eyes flashing with fury, and Graves doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so worked up about anything. “I’m not going to let you hold it over me like this. I don’t want to be in your debt. So take it back.”

“I don’t want it,” Graves says calmly, “I want you to have it. But I don’t want it to enable your relationship with this fucking psychopath who belittles you and insults you and _hits_ you.”

Credence gives him one more furious look before getting up, pointedly leaving the phone on the table and walking out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> umm yeah i'm truly sorry this just keeps getting worse and worse
> 
> i promise that eventually lil cre will be okay ... maybe


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And there it is, the ten simple words that Graves has been dreading without knowing he was dreading them. The admission that should be comforting, should be a relief, but instead feels like lead in the pit of his stomach. Those three syllables, that whisper-soft voice, echoing forever in the vacuum of Graves’ brain._
> 
>  
> 
> \--
> 
> Graves gets a phone call. Credence makes a confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys i am way too invested in this universe hahah. come scream with me @cannibalteacups on tumblr pls

Credence’s silence is more commanding than any words the boy could have said.

Tina and Newt finally notice that something is off, of course. Took them fucking long enough. Tina pries Graves for information, trying to trick him into accidentally letting slip what’s going on. Newt is the gentler of the two and in turn spends more time with Credence, making sure the boy is okay. Neither of them have any idea, still, but Graves is certain that they’re siding with Credence by default, carrying around some idea that Graves blew up at him for befriending Gellert. Because Graves is such an asshole.

He doesn’t have it in him to argue.

Luckily they’ve been on a stretch of long drives, nearing the end of the tour. It isn’t convenient or cost efficient to stop and stay in hotels so Abernathy drives through the night and they all sleep on the bus — meaning Credence can hide away in his bunk, no longer being forced to share a room, let alone a bed, with Graves.

_Yeah, the poor fucking kid. What a hardship._ _He didn’t hate the idea so much when he was half dressed underneath me, coming in his pants like a fucking teenager._ Graves shakes away the thought, along with the taunting reminder that Credence is technically still a teenager.

Most days Graves ends up eating dinner with Tina while Credence runs off with Newt. He finds himself distinctly more annoyed than his evenings with the boy, which are usually spent in comfortable silence or with minimal, enjoyable conversation. Tina is a different story, asking pointed questions, barely shutting her mouth for long enough to chew her food. Vietnamese this time, and Graves is shovelling as much beef fried rice as he can fit into his mouth in an effort to avoid having to speak.

Tina is picking at her vermicelli salad. “Listen, Perce. Credence is a good kid. I think he knows what he’s doing. If you—"

“Tina, no offence, but please shut up.” Graves waves his chopsticks in the air. “You really have no idea what’s going on. And _don’t_ ,” he adds when Tina opens her mouth, “bother asking, because it’s not my business to tell.”

At that, she gives up, sticking a cube of tofu in her mouth and rolling her eyes.

After several days of unbearable quiet a phone call comes, saving Graves from an awkward stretch of nothingness seated in the living space of the bus with Credence. The boy has been playing Pacman for two hours straight on his phone, which Graves had silently placed on his bunk the morning after their argument. There’s something playing on the TV but it’s muted and Graves hasn’t been able to bring himself to turn the volume up.

“Percival Graves,” he replies, turning away.

“Hello, Mr Graves, this is Langdon Shaw from Universal Records. Is this a good time?”

Jesus, why had the band decided it would be a good idea for Graves to be their business contact? Just because his father is a lawyer doesn’t mean he has a single piece of knowledge on any legal matters. He fumbles on the counter for a pen and notepad, as if he’s really going to start taking notes now. Credence tears his eyes away from his screen, fixing them on Graves, curious.

“Yes, of course Mr Shaw, this is great. We’re just on the road right now.”

“Ah, yes! I’ve been hearing so much about Macusa recently, everywhere I go it seems. Correct me if I’m wrong, but from my research you aren’t tied to any labels as of right now?”

“Nope, not at the moment.” Macusa has only released one record, and they’d done it independently.

“The folks here at Universal are taking quite an interest in your music — your first release, yes, but especially your recent live shows. You’ve got a new guitar player, right?”

Graves glances over at Credence, still watching him. “Yes, sir. He’s quite a talent.”

Credence looks away, but not before Graves catches the little smile that quirks up the corners of his lips.

“I’d love to sit down with you to talk about an offer we’ve put together. I know you’re playing LA tomorrow night, would you all be available to meet for a coffee during the day? We would love to work with you and I think we can strike up quite a deal. There’s going to be a lot of competition, labels trying to sign you, especially after that Pitchfork article… we’d love to get the first shot.”

“Yeah, of course,” Graves writes down _coffee, LA_. Very useful. “Wait, Pitchfork? Sorry, which article?”

“You haven’t seen it?” Langdon laughs. “Oh, God, you’re going to want to Google yourself a little more often. Pitchfork did a feature that was originally intended to review Deathly Hallows’ tour but ended up being more of a love letter to Macusa.”

“Fuck, really? I mean — sorry. Thank you, Mr Shaw, I’ll have to look into that. How about we meet you for coffee around 3 tomorrow? I think there’s a Starbucks across from the venue.”

They say their goodbyes and Graves hangs up, nearly dropping his phone as he hurridly flips over to Google and types in _macusa pitchfork_.

“What was that?” Credence asks, and Graves can tell he’s trying to sound casual.

“Our fuckin’ future, kid,” Graves murmurs. Then he shouts, "Tina! Newt! Get your asses in here, you’re not gonna believe this.”

They emerge from their bunks, both still half-asleep. Graves waves his phone in their faces. Newt squints, grabbing Graves’ wrist to keep the screen steady.

“ _Indie wonder Macusa stole the spotlight as the opening band on Deathly Hallows’ recent tour,”_ he reads slowly. His eyes widen. “ _Certainly outshining the renowned alternative rock idols, this small New York based group have been quietly taking America by storm. Most impressive is their newly joined teenaged guitarist, a mysteriously brooding emo heartthrob who’s already got legions of online fangirls swooning at his every move.”_

Credence is bright red, Graves is cackling, Tina’s got her hands over her face. “This is fucking _Pitchfork?_ ” She squeals.

“Yep,” Graves grins, “Oh, by the way? We’ve got a meeting with an A&R guy from Universal tomorrow.”

“Universal fucking Records?” Newt exclaims, and it may well be the first time Graves has ever heard him swear in their fifteen years of friendship.

“His name’s Langdon Shaw, we’re going to meet him in LA at three o’clock. He said the offers are gonna start pouring in and they want to beat them all out. This is huge, guys, fucking huge.”

Credence is smiling but quiet and Graves dismisses it as nervousness. Later, though, the boy approaches him as he's sitting at the small table in the kitchenette, drinking a cup of coffee. Tina and Newt have gone back to sleep, although they’re set to arrive at their LA hotel in a matter of minutes.

“Percy?” He says cautiously, hesitating to sit down. Testing the name in his mouth, the informality, the casual progression onto equal ground.

Graves does his best to smile invitingly. “You wanna go for a walk, Credence?”

He nods, mute, just as the bus slows to a stop. Graves sets down his coffee and thanks Abernathy, letting him know they’ll be back in a little while before heading out the door.

The night is pleasantly warm, a slow breeze rustling through the trees along the edge of the street. They walk side by side, neither wanting to speak first and broach the myriad of difficult subjects they know they have to address. Credence has his eyes fixed on the sidewalk in front of him, his grown-out hair curling gently along the sides of his face, cheekbones still as sharp as always but not quite as hollow. A healthy softness smooths out his edges. He’s wearing a sweater Graves hasn’t seen, navy blue with thin white pinstripes, a pair of black converse with perfectly white soles. Graves wonders if Gellert bought him new clothes.

As if reading his mind, Credence breaks the silence. “Newt took me shopping, but I used my own money.”

“Credence…” Graves sighs, starts again. “Credence. You don’t have to answer to me. You don’t owe me anything, okay? I’m sorry for making you feel like you do.”

The boy is silent, considering. They fall into synchronized steps, turning the corner onto a dim residential street, eerily silent for a night in such a lively city. Graves hears Credence draw a shaky breath and when he turns to look at him, he realizes with a jolt in his stomach that the boy is crying.

“Credence, oh, fuck,” Graves doesn’t even recognize his own voice, the mournful tone, the sudden despondency of his own heart. He stops walking and grabs him, the boy’s body feeling even smaller as Graves wraps him in his arms. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, lips against Credence’s soft, curly head, “I’m so sorry, Credence, fuck, please don’t cry.” 

That seems to only make it worse, and the boy is shaking now, sobbing into the collar of Graves’ old denim jacket, arms folded up between them as Graves holds him.

“Tighter, please,” he whimpers.

“Hmm?” Graves has his head rested on the boy’s hair, swaying gently.

“Hold me tighter. I don’t wanna move.”

And then —

Graves understands. The fear, the nervousness, the _Mr Graves?_ in that soft voice, the starvation for touch, for closeness. A joyless home, a rigid and unforgiving mother, a strict regime in school. Credence has never known a single thing but control, but submission and yielding, giving in to every demand. Graves had pulled him from that world, thrust him into a lifestyle of freedom, no boundaries, no rules, and then abandoned him there. Left the boy shivering and alone in a room without walls, free-falling with nowhere to land. The boy can’t handle it. Of course he would turn to Gellert, _of course —_ controlling and possessive and charismatic, more than willing to provide the direction Credence craves. Graves curses himself silently for his carelessness, his neglect, dragging the boy into his world and being reckless with his delicate heart.

“I’ll take care of you,” Graves murmurs, pressing his lips to Credence’s warm forehead. “I promise.”

 

——

 

Once Credence has settled down and Graves can finally extract his arms from around the boy, they walk around the block to a small cafe. It’s after eleven, but the place boasts its extended hours and they find a small table in a cozy back corner. Graves sips from a mug of black coffee — his third since five o’clock — while Credence cradles a hot chocolate, his face still a little blotchy from crying, long eyelashes clumped together. 

“I’m scared that Gellert is going to get…” he pauses, choosing his words carefully, “ _upset._ About the article, you know, and the deal with Universal.”

“The tour’s over after tomorrow,” Graves reminds him, “It really doesn’t matter. He can be as upset as he wants. He doesn’t own you.”

“We have a deal,” the boy says quietly, “He’s been helping me record my songs. He said… he said he can get me a lot of money for them, a way to get out of the church for good. But he wants me to help him, too.”

Graves feels his blood run cold. “Help him how, Credence?”

“He wants me to quit Macusa.” It’s practically a whisper. “I - I told him I can’t, that I don’t want to, but he keeps… he keeps telling me I _have_ to, or else he won’t help me, and he… he keeps threatening me, he has some things on me and I don’t … I don’t know what to do.”

Credence looks dangerously close to crying again, his lip trembling, and Graves reaches over the table, covering the boy's hands with his own.

“Credence,” he starts, “I need you to tell me something, okay? Did Gellert… I mean, if he ever… touched you—"

Credence shakes his head violently. “He didn’t, I mean…” his voice is trailing off into nothing. “He didn’t do anything. That I didn’t.” He swallows. “Want him to.”

And there it is, the ten simple words that Graves has been dreading without knowing he was dreading them. The admission that should be comforting, should be a relief, but instead feels like lead in the pit of his stomach. Those three syllables, that whisper-soft voice, echoing forever in the vacuum of Graves’ brain. 

 

_want-him-to. want-him-to. want-him-to._

 

A spiral of pathetic jealousy, of juvenile anger, this itch that he wants to tear from the deepest layers of his skin. Stupid. Credence’s voice taunting him in every corner of his mind. _want-him-to._

 

_want-him-to._

 

Graves doesn’t realize he’s frozen until the boy reaches out, places a warm, soft hand over Graves’, which is white-knuckle grasping the handle of his mug. “Percy.”

“I think we should go to the hotel,” Graves says hoarsely. “I think we should… I think we should go.”

Credence shakes his head, frowning. “I want to keep talking.”

“I don’t care what you want.” As he says it, Graves realizes how true it is, the reason he’s in this fucking mess in the first place. He had brought Credence into the band because he _wanted_ him as their guitarist. He had bought him a phone because he _wanted_ to be the one to hand it to him, to overwhelm the boy with gifts, to see that reverent look on his face. He had kissed him because he _wanted_ it, not caring whether it would hurt or confuse him, not caring that Credence is young and inexperienced and fragile. And he’d pushed him away because of his own selfish feelings, his inability to accept the reality of them, to let Credence be his own person, to live a real life.

Credence looks stricken. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” Graves won’t meet his eyes.

“You don’t,” Credence says angrily, voice rising. “I don’t accept that.”

“Credence, I’ve been nothing but horrible to you. I used you, I corrupted you, I took advantage of you, I drained you of all your sweetness because it made me feel good. And then you still tried to give me more and I pushed you away, straight into the grasp of a frankly evil fucking scumbag, and now you’re hurt and confused and letting this psychopath fuck you, and I should have just stayed away, I should have just left you alone. I’m sorry. I was nice to you until you trusted me and then I kicked you every time you tried to be close to me. I’m fucked, kid, really fucked. None of this is your fault.”

Credence stares at his hands, methodically folding a napkin into a tiny square. 

“I don’t let him fuck me,” he says finally, the profanity sounding so foreign in his soft voice. “He doesn’t touch me at all, really. He kissed me once. Mostly he just… asks me. To. Um, you know what I mean, right?”

Graves puts his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes, trying to figure out how the fuck he can respond to that. “I know what you mean, Credence. He shouldn’t… he shouldn’t do that to you.” God, he feels like a parent trying to have a painfully awkward sex talk with his teenaged son and failing miserably. 

“He’s not forcing me,” the boy counters, his eyes flashing, daring Graves to dispute him. He can have this, his little triumph over Graves, he can hold onto it and brandish it like a weapon if he needs to. This small piece of independence. 

“I like being told what to do. Sometimes.” He continues, eyes back to the napkin on the table. “It makes me feel less scared.”

Graves looks at him sadly. Credence's face is pinched, argumentative. Retaliation pressed up in his mouth, stored somewhere against his soft palate, waiting to be thrown across the table at Graves. Rehearsed. Trained. When did he become the enemy? He knows it's nobody's fault but his own.

“Those songs are beautiful,” Graves tells him, “I didn’t get to listen to all of them, but the ones that I heard… fuck, kid, why didn’t you show them to me?”

“I thought you didn’t like me anymore.”

The words are so callow, such raw and immature insecurity, but they slip under Graves’ skin and eat at him. Insidious.

“Of course I like you, Credence,” Graves says weakly, “I’m just an asshole. It’s not an excuse. You’re so good, you’re so sincere and I’m just a jaded wreck. I’m sorry I hurt you. I wish you’d shown me the songs.”

“It’s a concept album, kind of,” Credence confides, unfolding the napkin and smoothing it down on the table, “I’m calling it _Salem_ , I think. It’s about my Ma, about living at the church. Back in Salem, if you were accused of being a witch you were burned or thrown in the water, and if you drowned or burned to death, you were innocent. If you survived, you were a witch and they’d kill you for it. Either way… if you were accused, you couldn’t win.” He looks up, smiles grimly. “That’s what it was like with Ma. She crucified me either way.”

It’s as much of an admission as Graves has ever gotten out of him.

“Your hand, that day…”

“And my back another, sometimes my arms. My face, one time.” The boy laughs quietly. “I missed a week of classes after that one. When Gell hit me it was so familiar it almost felt good.”

Graves hesitates, thoughts coming at him too fast to sort out. “Credence, if you give me a chance to, I can take better care of you. We can… try things. To make you feel less scared. Do you know what I’m trying to say?”

Credence scrutinizes him, lips pressed together in consideration. “I think so.”

“Whatever happens at this meeting tomorrow,” Graves adds, “I want you to know that it’s your choice how you move forward. As much as I want you in Macusa, and want you in my life, if that isn’t what you want then I need you to know it’s okay to say so.” He glances at his phone. “It’s getting late, do you want to go to the hotel?”

Credence nods, slips from his chair, waiting for Graves’ queue to head out the door. They make their way to the Ace hotel, Credence’s head bowed, Graves’ hand placed reassuringly on the small of his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooooo
> 
> yay! fuck gellert! graves, you're finally getting your shit together! everything is fine!
> 
>  
> 
> ...for now


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Let me.” Graves reaches, fingers closing on a skinny wrist. Standing up, guiding._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Yes,” again, “okay.”_
> 
> \--
> 
> Macusa meets with Langdon; Graves is learning to take care of Credence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic now has a playlist!! i put it together carefully and i'm super excited about it so check it out/reblog on tumblr [here](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/177326617050/i-wear-your-melodies-around-my-neck-fic-playlist)
> 
> this chapter is a lil shorter but the next one will be extra long i promise
> 
> <3

Langdon Shaw is a zealous, wild-eyed man, expressing animatedly in the crowded, noisy Starbucks, passion enveloping every sentence he speaks. He’s throwing out words like _fast-track_ and _mass media_ and _marketing strategies_ , waving his hands in the air, talking a mile a minute. It takes all Graves’ effort to follow the man’s train of thought, which goes from recording contracts to international press tours to magazine features all in a matter of thirty seconds. Newt looks more than a little overwhelmed. Tina looks like she's about to jump out of her chair and dance on the table. Credence has been silent for most of the conversation, listening carefully.

“You are a hot commodity, I promise you,” Langdon finishes, clapping his hands together as if in prayer. “Whatever it takes to sign you, we will hand it to you on a silver platter. You want a private jet? I will finance it myself.”

Graves grins at him, shaking his head. “This is unbelievable. Tina? Newt?” He glances at the silent boy beside him, who has moved incrementally closer to him over the course of the conversation. He moves his hand discreetly to rest on Credence’s knee beneath the table. The boy relaxes visibly. “Credence?”

“This is great,” he says finally, “What do we need to do?”

Langdon reaches into his briefcase, pulling out a stapled bundle of papers. “I’ll get you to have a lawyer read these over before you sign anything. It’s all just technical stuff, the paperwork, but we want you to be happy with the deal you’re getting. What I’m proposing is a two-album contract to start. Within the next four years, you’re agreeing to record and release two full length records under Universal — Republic Records, to be exact. Whatever tours and merchandising you choose to do during that time is up to you, and we can fund it as part of the marketing expenses for the records.” He leans in closer, lowering his voice. “Really, truly, I am throwing this label under the bus for as much money as I possibly can. I want you guys. Whatever it takes.” He falls back in his chair once more, smile widening his face. “Give me a call once you decide, okay?”

They all shake his hand and he heads out the door, long strides, practically skipping.

“What an exhausting man,” Tina comments, “But holy fuck, I want to trust him.”

“I’ll text my father, see if he can recommend someone.” Graves scrolls through his phone, tapping out a message. “Newt, what do you think?”

“I think I’m quitting my day job,” he says with a smirk, downing the rest of his latte in one gulp. “And I’m pretty excited for the show tonight.”

It’s their last show on this tour — tomorrow morning they’ll be on the road back to New York. It’s bittersweet, but with this on the horizon Graves can’t wait to start the next chapter. One that will hopefully not involve Gellert Grindelwald at any point along the way. They’re playing at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery tonight, an iconic venue that Graves has been idealizing for as long as he can remember. Though his anger towards Gellert has reached its boiling point, he keeps himself held back, meditating on the fact that they’ll be parting ways in less than 24 hours.

They finish soundcheck with two hours to spare before doors and then get changed on the bus, Tina reading off nearby dinner options.

“I think I’m gonna stay behind,” Credence tells them, “I’m not very hungry.”

Newt and Tina exchange a concerned look and Graves waves them off. “I’ll feed him snacks. Youguys go ahead.”

They do, and as soon as they leave the bus Graves sits Credence down on the couch. “What’s going on?”

Credence won’t look at him, and Graves puts two fingers under his chin, lifting, forcing the boy to face him. 

“Credence.” he says. Warning. Commanding.

“Yes,” the boy murmurs, warm beneath Graves’ fingers. 

He cups the boy’s cheek, thumb rubbing circles on jutting bone. “Tell me.”

He shifts in his seat but maintains their steady mutual gaze. “When I go home… I mean, everything is different now, isn’t it?”

“I wanted to talk to you about that,” Graves admits. “I want you to stay with me, Credence. At my apartment. For now, at least. Where you’re safe.”

“But my Ma,” the boy says uncomfortably, “And Gellert—“

“Gellert is nothing, okay?” Graves exasperates. “No one. Insignificant. After tonight you never have to see him again. We’re gonna sign that deal and you’re gonna have tons of money, okay, and you don’t have to stay with me forever obviously but at least while you figure things out.”

“He has… he has things he can use against me,” Credence says meekly, breaking their eye contact. Graves lifts him again, more firmly this time.

“No,” he says. “He has nothing. Credence. Listen to me.”

“Yes,” the boy whispers, “Okay.”

“Let me.” Graves reaches, fingers closing on a skinny wrist. Standing up, guiding.

“Yes,” again, “okay.”

The black curtain shrouds the small lower bunk, barely slept in by Graves, used more for short naps that do nothing to curb his chronic exhaustion. He lays the boy down, careful, gentle. Credence stares up at him, devout and adoring, breathing slowly through parted lips. Allowing himself to be moved, coaxed into place, his body going lax and pliant under Graves’ control. He doesn’t even flinch when Graves begins to unbutton his shirt, just lifts his shoulders to help him pull it off. Graves runs his hands along his chest, arms, peaked nipples, protruding ribs, flat belly. Feels Credence tug in a breath as he dips his fingertips under the waistband of his black jeans.

He looks down at the boy, affection flooding every part of his body as he traces each prominent bone, each soft piece of skin. Finally he leans in, open-mouthed, breathing hot over the boy’s nipples, down along his sternum, navel, down toward his hipbones. Credence twitches, whimpers.

“Use your words, Credence.” His voice is low. Steady.

“Please.”

He moves up to Credence’s ear, warm breath on his neck. “What do you want, sweetheart?”

“Will you kiss me?”

Graves smiles to himself. “Not yet.” He pulls away, leaving Credence shivering on the bed, eyes closed. “Stay here until you’ve calmed down. And then I want you to get up, put on your red shirt and come to the cafe across the street. I’ll get you something to eat. You understand me?”

Credence looks up at him, wide-eyed. He nods. “Yes, sir.”

Graves pets his head softly. “Good.”

He slides the curtain back into place and gets off the bus, heading across the street to the small coffeeshop. God, the effect the boy has on him is unbelievable, even when he’s the one exercising control — attempting to, at least. 

Credence comes in after fifteen minutes. Graves' heart leaps at the sight of him walking through the door, looking around the room until his eyes land on the older man. He smiles sheepishly, makes his way over. There’s a sandwich waiting for him on the table, tomatoes and fresh mozzarella smothered in balsamic vinegar, tucked in next to a generous helping of garden salad. Graves himself nurses only a small black coffee, stomach far too unsettled to eat. He's never been this nervous for a show before.

“I want you to finish that,” Graves informs him. Fuck, it comes easier than he’d thought it would.

Credence smiles, a small quirk of his lip, taking a bite of salad. “Thank you. It’s really good.”

“You’re welcome.” Graves leans forward, elbows on the table. “Hey, I was thinking about the Universal deal. It’s up to you, of course, but I’m sure Tina and Newt would agree. I’d love to record your concept album. I mean, if you want to do that as a solo project, I totally get it. But…”

“I would like that,” Credence responds, always so sincere, “I can give you the demos I recorded. We can plan it out.”

“Great.” Graves takes a sip of his coffee. “Finish your salad, please.”

The boy raises his eyebrows and slowly licks the dressing from the underside of the fork. Graves could swear he sees in a split-second a flutter of eyes, a darting glance, a twitch in the corner of full lips: a smug look from a boy who knows his power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was kind of a mini chapter to introduce the changing dynamic of credence and graves' relationship - some D/s undertones but not super intense. cre just needs some guidance/direction and percy is happy to provide of course
> 
> as always, i'm @cannibalteacups on tumblr for any questions/comments/general screaming
> 
> <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He doesn’t care about Hell, doesn’t care about the fire. He wants. He hungers._   
>  _He covets._
> 
> \--
> 
> Graves books a hotel room; Credence loses his religion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here is where it gets TRULY filthy. check the updated tags i guess??
> 
> seriously guys this is like essentially 3k+ words of porn, i am so sorry. also some minor plot thrown in to save my soul  
> heavy warning for smut and blasphemy. so much blasphemy.  
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [side note: i made a quick lil edit for this fic that i think is super fuckin cute, here it is on tumblr](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/177401263010/i-wear-your-melodies-around-my-neck-chapter-9-he)

Red lights shimmer down over the Hollywood Forever Cemetery and Graves is floating, dreaming, he must be, because never in his life has he felt such a capacity for brilliance. In all his years growing up as the rich kid, handed anything he pointed to in a catalogue of dreams, his life practically served to him on a silver platter, promised he’d be someone, go somewhere — nothing compares to _here,_ to _right now._  Under the lights with his best friends surrounding him, Credence by his side throwing him furtive glances, little smiles. Lithe fingers darting along the fretboard, flirting. Telling him through sequence and sound all of the things he’s too frightened to put into words.

The crowd screaming, desperate howls from girls who reach for Newt whenever he approaches the edge of the stage. Tina drumming her fucking heart out, eyes squeezed shut, sweat dripping from her arms. Graves steps over to Credence, leans into his ear, whispers “ _You are a miracle.”_ Credence flushes, grin plastered on his face, nearly slipping up on his perfectly composed arpeggios but sliding into the next chord at the last second. The crowd goes wild at the sight. Someone screams _“I love you Credence!_ ” and the boy turns an even deeper shade of pink.

By the time their set is over, they’re all sweaty and exhausted and smiling ear to ear, the crowd a thunderous ringing that sticks in their heads as they walk off stage, waving back to the cheering faces. They fall onto each other in the backstage hall, hugging and laughing and congratulating each other breathlessly. Little quips of _great solo, Credence_ and _Newt you sounded fucking incredible_ and _Tina, Jesus, we could barely keep up you absolute lunatic_ and _Graves I swear that was the best you’ve ever played_ are repeated to incoherency as they finally reach their dressing room. Tina and Newt fall onto the couch, Graves snatches up two bottles of water and blathers vaguely about going to the bus. Grabs Credence by the arm and the boy stumbles after him out the door.

“You fucking beautiful, brilliant boy,” Graves murmurs, sufficiently drunk and unable to keep his hands off of Credence, “My baby, my angel…”

Credence grins and nudges the bus door open, walking on backwards as Graves gets closer and closer, holding the boy’s hands and pushing him forward into the dark. Credence nearly falls on the stairs but regains his balance, flipping on the light switch, managing to make it to Graves’ bunk before sprawling out on his back. He only has about a drink and a half in him but he’s pleasantly tipsy, still a lightweight, warm in the face.

“Anything you want, Credence,” Graves growls, kneeling over the boy’s supine form and reaching for the collar of his shirt, “Tell me, baby, anything. I’ll give it to you. Anything.”

“Just want you,” Credence breathes, closing his eyes and stretching his arms as Graves unbuttons the rest of his shirt, lifting momentarily as it’s pulled from his body. “Just you.”

Graves dips his face down and Credence bares his neck as the older man presses kisses along his clavicle, nearing the dip between his shoulder and throat, sucking hard and making him moan. The sound is fucking beautiful, better than anything Graves has ever heard, sending lightning bolts straight down between his legs. He kisses up the side of the boy’s face, finally reaching Credence’s warm mouth, already open and waiting, eager and accepting as Graves sweeps his tongue inside.

He can feel Credence growing hard against him through two layers of denim and he presses down, catching a sharp intake of breath against his ear. He slides lower, kissing trails across the boy’s chest, stopping at one pointed pink nipple and biting gently. Credence is sweaty and feverish; he smells sweet and strong and _alive._ There’s a buzzing electricity under his skin that Graves can feel, channeled through his own body every time he presses his lips down. Live wire. Credence moans.

Graves’ shirt has long been sticking to his chest with sweat and he pulls it over his head, practically throwing it across the room. He bears down on Credence with new fervor, pushing his hardness up against the smaller boy’s, hearing him mewl, rolling his hips up into the contact. 

“Credence, baby, I wanna fuck you, I wanna fuck you so bad,” Graves is losing himself to the feeling, elbows framing Credence’s head, and the boy looks like a fucking work of art: dark hair cascading onto the white sheets, eyelids fluttering closed, small chest heaving. Biting his lip hard enough to draw blood.

“Mm, Percy, I’m — no, wait, stop, I can’t —”

Credence sobs, curling in on himself, and Graves pets his hair slowly, shushing him as his hips stutter to another premature climax. He keeps his body pressed down, relishing the warmth that spills through, evidence of the boy’s youthful hunger, his lack of control. Unripe fruit. Graves shudders.

“I’m sorry, God, I tried to—”

“Shh,” Graves murmurs, one hand pressed to the boy’s temple, “You’re so good, Credence. So good for me. So healthy, so fucking lush.” He kisses him, deep and slow. “I’m going to keep touching you, okay? Just relax, baby. Shh.” 

Credence is trembling, hypersensitive and on fire, so responsive to every brush, every glance of contact. Graves reaches for the zipper on the boy’s pants, hearing in the distance the beginning of Deathly Hallows’ set.

Suddenly the boy shoots up, eyes widening. “Oh…”

Graves falls back. “What is it?”

Credence stumbles out of bed, pulling his shirt back on, buttoning it up as he runs straight out the door.

“What the _fuck…_ ” Graves grumbles, scouring the floor for his own sweaty tee shirt, tugging it over his head and racing after the boy.

When Graves reaches him, Credence is standing side-stage, watching the band with a growing look of panic and fury. “This is my song.”

Indeed, it does sound a little uncharacteristically _good_ for Deathly Hallows. Graves watches their lackluster guitar player fumble over Credence’s composition, Gellert crooning out the lyrics in his drawling, nasally voice. “So he has…”

“All of them,” Credence exhales. Graves looks at the boy — still flushed, shirt only halfway buttoned, hair unkempt. Standing there with balled up fists, come still drying in his pants, a tender love bite standing out starkly against the white column of his throat. He’s in no position to pick a fight right now.

Graves puts a hand on Credence’s cheek. “Let’s go back.”

“But this is my _song_.” Credence looks close to tears.

“There’s nothing you can do right now,” Graves reasons, “I swear to God I’ll kick his ass the moment he’s off that stage, you know I will. Come on.”

After an extended look towards the stage Credence concedes, allowing Graves to lead him back to the bus. He ignores his own arousal, which has now dulled to a low buzz in his belly, instead kissing Credence chastely on the lips and mumbling: “Go get cleaned up.”

The boy nods, embarrassed, hastening to the bathroom. Graves takes a seat on the couch, his mind combing methodically through a long list of ways to destroy Gellert Grindelwald.

——

Before the end of Deathly Hallows’ set Tina and Newt return to the bus, looking rather dishevelled from the ‘walk around the block’ they both claim they took. Graves fills them in on Gellert’s thievery. Tina looks outraged; Newt is shaking his head in disbelief. Graves resists the urge to indulge in his very well-earned _I told you so._

“What are you gonna do?” Tina asks, taking a sip of the beer she and Newt are sharing.

“Fuckin’ kill the guy, obviously.”

“Not the best idea when we’re trying to score a record deal,” Newt chimes in, earning him a glare.

“He has all my demos, all the lyrics,” Credence says, sounding miserable. “He could take them all.”

“We’re not gonna let that happen, Cre,” Tina says sympathetically, “Besides, the moment you email them, upload them, even just to yourself, they’re yours.”

“Copyright is active upon creation,” Newt recites, “Sera taught me that one. As soon as it’s time stamped, you’ve got all the rights.”

Credence doesn’t look convinced. Graves puts a hand on his leg, absently rubbing his thumb over the boy’s knee; Tina and Newt pointedly ignore it. The sound from the venue has faded off meaning Deathly Hallows have finished their set. Anxiety is already blooming deep in Graves’ stomach, anticipating a major confrontation, possibly murder. 

As if reading his mind Tina says, “Listen, Graves. Trying to fight the guy isn’t going to help. We’ll handle this calmly, rationally, like adults. Credence owns those songs, we’re in the right here. No need to throw fists.”

Graves may disagree but he nods at her, getting up and setting down his bottle. “Let’s go.”

They run into Gellert alone, luckily, not backed up by his band of mindless cretins. He sneers at them, running a hand through his hair. “So, our last night. How… _sad._ ”

“You know why we’re here, Gellert,” Newt says plainly. Tina steps up beside him, arms crossed.

“So you aren’t here to say goodbye?” Gellert puts a hand over his heart in mock distress. “But I’m going to miss you all,” he looks at Credence, eyes shining, “ _so_ much.”

Credence flinches and Graves rests a hand reassuringly on the small of his back.

“You will never play, sing, record, reproduce or share one of Credence’s songs again,” Graves warns, “or I can promise you a fucking shitstorm. Credence has full ownership of those songs and I have direct lines to twenty five of New York City’s top lawyers. Don’t fucking try me.”

Gellert looks at him for a long moment. “I’ll look forward to seeing you again, Percival.”

He turns on his heel and walks away.

——

It takes three days to drive back to New York, although Graves sifts through every single possibility in his head to manage some way that they could fly instead. In the end he surrenders to the inevitability of the trip. The band uses most of it to pore over the twenty-six page booklet from Langdon, dissecting it in detail over the phone with Bernadette, Graves’ father’s best lawyer who they’ve decided to hire for any future business decisions. They also call Queenie, having her rehash in detail her entire experience signing to Sony.

“Oh, Teenie, we’ll be on competing labels!” Queenie says mischievously, “How fun!”

As far as Bernadette is concerned, the offer on the table is pretty much ideal. She has a copy faxed over from Langdon which she's been studying for several days.

“Make sure you get this Shaw guy as your manager,” she advises them, “If he pitched this, he’s on your side. Aside from that I think you should sign as soon as you’re ready.”

Sleep consumes the rest of their time, as all of them have grown practically delirious with exhaustion after so many late nights and early mornings. On the bus they stick to their separate bunks, both pairs refusing to openly acknowledge the reality of each other’s relationships though it’s grown to be rather obvious. When they stop in Chicago however, two thirds of the way home, they stay at the most ostentatious hotel Graves can find.

Their room is enormous, luxurious, accented with red and gold. A jacuzzi tub sits by the far wall which is ninety percent window. Credence falls back onto the bed as soon as they walk in, stretching with a quiet yawn, humming contentedly. He looks so cute, so endearingly _normal_ in Adidas track pants and a plain white tee-shirt. The toes of his black high tops are not so perfectly white anymore and his floppy hair could use a trim, especially in his overgrown fringe — though certainly not with the same blunt scissors.

“You’re a vision, Credence,” Graves murmurs, not quite loud enough for the boy to hear. He sets down his bags and steps over to the window, looking out at downtown Chicago, lit up and glittering under the late night gloom. Little sparkling lights are dotted like stars across the horizon and Graves watches them, sixteen stories up. 

“Mr Graves?”

Graves turns from the window, taking in the sight of the boy propped up on his elbows on the bed, belly down, looking far too fucking innocent. 

“Can we take a bath?”

——

From the tender age of six, at the beginning of his Catholic school education, Percival Graves had the Ten Commandments ingrained in his curious mind. Mr and Mrs Graves have always been a practical, no-nonsense couple: neither of them believe in God, both of them believe in appeasing their elderly parents. And so little Percy was thrust into the Catholic stream, baptized and uniformed, that sacred list of rules stamped like a barcode over every part of his educational life.

There, at the end of the list, the four words Graves had taken most to heart:

_Thou shalt not covet._

Graves had never wanted for anything, his parents had ensured it. Beyond any material desires, Graves had lacked the impulse to chase after any girl or boy, so far removed from the yearning of teenage hearts. He’d had lovers, of course, even long relationships — but his heart had never broken, he’d never spent sleepless nights longing for what could have been. 

_Thou shalt not covet._

Now, though, in the cloudy haze of steam rising from the jacuzzi tub, full to the brim with bubbles, and Credence’s pliant body draped over his, the boy’s head resting on his shoulder: he doesn’t care about Hell, doesn’t care about the fire. He wants. He hungers _._

He _covets_.

The room is a temperate orange, lights set low on the dimmer, candles flickering on the bedside tables. Credence had faltered momentarily when he’d gone to get undressed, fingers pausing at the hem of his shirt. Losing his nerve. So Graves had kissed him dizzy, until the boy became malleable and soft, the older man murmuring words of praise and filthy things against his hair. Credence’s fingers had been shaking as he tugged off his pants.

The bubbles are a compromise, giving Credence reprieve from the residual shame so deeply inveterate from the past nineteen years. But Graves doesn’t mind, because now Credence’s back is pressed to Graves’ chest, his head lolled, the curve of his ass resting between the older man’s legs. Graves places kisses along the side of Credence’s cheek and the boy sighs happily, his hands floating down from where they had been, tucked protectively against his body.

Never has Graves _wanted_ so desperately. He reels in his desire, for the first time feeling afraid of what he’ll do if he doesn’t hold back. Credence is inhuman, such a beautiful unreality in this strange, frightening world. He could eat the boy alive.

His hands move slowly along Credence’s hairless chest, feeling each bump of his ribs, hearing the boy mewl when he runs his fingertips over sensitive nipples. Hair trigger. He pinches, teases, and Credence squirms against him. Graves keeps him held tight.

“I want you to come,” Graves says, keeping his voice low and steady, “As quickly and as often as you would like.”

Credence moans at the words, eyelids fluttering. Graves reaches his purpose, the boy’s softest parts, his shame: the forbidden fruit in the paradise of his body. He’s hard, smooth skin resting against his navel. Not as big as Graves, this part of his body just as slender as the rest. Graves takes him in hand for the first time and Credence flinches, the sound in his throat a soft thrum, vibration. 

It barely takes four strokes of Graves’ hand before the boy is coming, trying to curl forward but unable to with the older man’s strong arms holding him back against his body He whimpers softly, his cock pulsing out under the warm bubbly water.

“What do you say?” Graves murmurs, still stroking the boy lazily through his sensitive afterglow.

“Th-thank you,” it comes out half words and half groan as Credence tries to shift away from Graves’ twisting hand. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere for him to hide. 

“Thank you?” He prompts, craving the sound of those titles he used to hate. _Sir. Mr Graves._ It’s all so enticing now.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

Graves’ brain ignites. Where the _fuck_ did Credence learn that one? He’d never considered this, balked at the idea, really. But hearing it in this boy’s docile and innocent voice throws all of his previous qualms out the window. He’s hard, pressed up into the cleft of the boy’s ass, and feels more and more desperate to bury himself inside and never come out.

Trust, though, is important. Kindness. Caution. After discovering the truth about Gellert’s influence on the boy he feels queasy at the thought of asking him for anything at all.

“Credence,” he sighs, “I can’t wait to fuck you, baby.”

“Please,” the boy says feebly, hard again in Graves’ absently stroking hand.

Graves shakes his head. Kisses the boy’s neck. “Not today. But soon, I promise.”

He shifts, holding onto Credence’s skinny hips, until his own length is pushing up between the boy’s legs. “Squeeze your thighs together,” he instructs. Credence clenches and Graves lets out a shaky breath at the feeling.

Slowly he begins to rock upwards, cock sliding between Credence’s thighs, soft skin driving him fucking crazy. Nudges against the boy’s balls, hand still jerking him off slowly under the water. 

Credence breathes in sharply. “Percy, I —” babbling, stammering, “I’m sorry, I can’t, please, Daddy…”

He comes again, and it’s a wonder to Graves, the boy’s swift refraction, the copious amount he produces, the capacity for pure and unabashed pleasure. Credence is boneless and floppy against him, deadweight, begging him to stop touching him, stop fucking _playing_ with him, his dick small and soft and drained. But even when he finally drops his hand onto the boy’s thigh, the rhythmic thrusting between his legs is enough to start slowly winding him up again.

Graves himself is nearing the inevitable end; the heat emanating from the water and Credence himself is almost too much to bear. He wishes he could stay here forever in this comfortable haven, on the brink of orgasm but never quite tipping over. Stay here, holding him, never walking back out into Chicago, never again joining the galaxy of twinkling city lights. Here with the bath, the dim light and the boy. So warm and alive. 

_Thou shalt not covet._

“Credence,” he gasps, returning his hand to the boy’s cock, which is growing harder once again. The boy is wriggling, begging, whimpering. It hurts, Graves knows it must, but in such a heavenly way. Credence is getting more and more overwhelmed, a little panicky, short breaths, this kind of limitless pleasure still so new to the boy. “Do you know the ten commandments?”

“ _I am the Lord your God,_ ” Credence recites in a trembling whimper. Memorized. Rehearsed. This the boy knows. This brings him back to solid ground, back to physical reality.

“ _Thou shalt have no other gods before me…_ ” 

Flinching. Graves, forcing his legs tighter together, thrusting up faster. 

“ _Thou shalt not make for yourself an idol._ ” 

His large hand curling around Credence’s cock, tugging, urging him back into hardness.  


“ _Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name - oh - in vain._ ” 

The boy, shaking, beautiful. The image of the lamb, laying down for slaughter. Sacrificial. 

“ _Remember the Sabbath Day, to keep it Holy…_ ” 

Is it Sunday? It could be, or it could not be. Graves can't remember. It doesn’t matter, anyway. 

“ _Honor thy father and thy mother._ ” 

Credence, hips jerking up, clumsy and wanting, wanting… 

_“Thou shalt not kill_.” 

Little darling. Little ghost. Shaking in his hands.

“ _Thou shalt not—_ ” a breathy laugh “— _commit adultery_ …” 

Graves, stroking him faster, pushing him closer, closer, his own climax a tidal wave on the brink of overtaking him.

" _Thou shalt not steal._ "

Credence, twisting, nails scratching into Graves' thighs beneath him, holy, holy, adoring and devout. 

“ _Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor_ …”

Credence’s eyes roll back. Graves digs his teeth into the boy’s shoulder.

“ _Thou shalt not covet._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. um.
> 
> yeah?
> 
> there was also some plot stuff in there but i can't even think about that right now sorry i have to go to church tbh
> 
> anyway. as always, [ catch me on tumblr ](http://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The first thing Graves does upon the band’s arrival in New York City is throw up out the window._
> 
> \--
> 
> Macusa signs their record deal; Graves buys Credence a coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh the second last chapter!!
> 
> as you can see this is part of a series and the sequel will be coming pretty much right after this one's done so don't fret :)

The first thing Graves does upon the band’s arrival in New York City is throw up out the window.

Fitting, really. Tying up this rollercoaster of a month in a neat little bow, ornamented with snickers from Tina and looks of concern from Credence. Too much alcohol, not enough vegetables and forty two hours across three days in a moving vehicle is reason enough for him to wave a hand dismissively, stumble to the sink for a glass of water. “Sorry, guys.”

New York has grown cold in their absence, mid-November already — something they had managed to ignore as they travelled through southern states on the second half of the tour. It’s easy to forget that you have to return to snow and ice when you’re sweating onstage in 75 degree Los Angeles. Now, though, the harsh reality hits them in the form of bitter wind, a slap in the face as they walk off the bus outside of their warehouse. Loading out all of their gear and possessions is absolutely dreadful, and by the time they’ve finished Graves feels about ready to vomit again.

There’s no time, though, not even enough for Graves — and Credence, he thinks with a twinge of excitement — to go drop their things off at his apartment. They have a meeting with Langdon in twenty minutes, the man having just flown in from LA this morning. Graves gives Abernathy a generous tip and thanks him before they all pile into Tina’s van, headed for Universal Records’ New York headquarters.

Nobody talks on the ten minute drive, save for the road-rage feuled quips that Tina throws out under her breath every time someone cuts her off. 

 

The building is intimidating to say the least, a large gold-plated sign boasting the company’s title above the door. Tina runs her hands over the wrinkles in her pleated skirt while Newt straightens his collar again and again. Credence looks terrified, nearly shaking in his white button down. Even Graves, who normally doesn’t give a single thought to what the people around him may think, suddenly feels starkly out of place. They don’t speak, even as they step into the massive elevator and head up to the fourth floor.

Langdon greets them the moment they step out into the hallway with a vibrant grin. “This is the best day of my life.” 

Graves feels a wave of relief and watches as his bandmates visibly relax. No need to be stressed out, they’re here because this place wants them to be. The ball’s in their court. He straightens up. “So, I hear you’ve got something for us to sign?”

Langdon’s eyes dance as he beckons them into his office. “I trust you’ve had a lawyer look over everything? If you’re ready, we are too. As soon as you sign we can start talking about our next steps from here.” They all sit down in the four chairs across from his desk. He slides over another copy of the booklet. “You’ll sign this one, the other is yours to keep for reference. You’re signing to Republic Records, a branch of Universal. The contract begins today and ends four years from now, so November 26th, 2014.”

Graves looks around at his bandmates, his best friends, all trying to appear collected but clearly bursting at every seam. “I think we’re ready.”

They take turns signing, initialling a few other pages, dating them. It all feels so surreal, like this is some grandiose joke being played on them, like any moment now Langdon is going to laugh in their faces, say _You really thought you were_ that _good?_

But it is very real, as tangible as the pen in Graves’ hand. 

Langdon takes the booklet back, closes it and raps his hands on the desk. “So.”

They barely have time to breathe as he launches into what seems to be the entire outline of the next four years of their career. Recording sessions, tours, photoshoots, interviews, press tours… Graves’ head is already spinning. “Can we slow down for a sec?”

Langdon laughs. “Of course, of course. Didn’t mean to freak you guys out. Right now, you only need to worry about three things: an interview in a major publication about your new deal, writing for the first album, and social media.”

“We don’t really _do_ that,” Tina admits. 

Langdon raises his eyebrows. “Well, you’re going to have to. Social media is everything now, and I mean _everything._ Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, the whole bit. You need photos, updates, jokes, interaction with fans. Everything is so fast paced now, it’s _bang bang bang._ ” He bangs his fist on the desk emphatically. “No one has an attention span these days. People get bored. You can’t just release an album, tour it, and then go into hiding like bands used to do. You’ve gotta be on the ball, putting out fresh content every day.”

“Every day?” Newt says doubtfully, glancing at Graves, who returns his look.

“Content is a broad term,” Langdon reasons, “It can be a single tweet, a selfie, a video. Anything that shows you’re still here, still exciting. I’m thinking we can hand the social media reins over to you, kid, you probably know the most about it. Instagram and all that.”

Credence looks like a deer in headlights. “I… I don’t know what that is, sir.”

“I’ll do it,” Newt says quickly, drawing attention away from the self-conscious boy. “I mean, we can all contribute, but I can set up the accounts and all that, make sure we’re staying on top of it.”

“Great!” Langdon pulls out the latest edition of _Rolling Stone_ , slides it across the desk. “Your interview’s gonna be in the next copy, so we’ve gotta book it sometime next week. I’ll shoot you an email with the date once it’s confirmed but I figure you’re all flexible? Tell me you’ve quit your day jobs already.”

Newt grins. “I called Starbucks as soon as Graves got off the phone with you.”

Langdon high fives him. “The interview’s just gonna focus on your new deal and a bit of the history of the band. How you got started, all that. They may talk a bit about the tour but it won’t be the main point. They’ll probably also bring up your plans for the future, so make sure you’ve got a basic idea of where you’re going with the next record.” He pulls out a few more forms and hands them out. “Direct deposit forms. You’ve opted to split your earnings equally, correct? So that rounds out your advance to just over forty thousand dollars each.”

Graves’ ears are ringing. He’s certainly lived a comfortable life on his parents’ money, but this is _different._ He _earned_ this. He can see Credence’s disbelief out of the corner of his eye and resists the urge to put his hand on the boy’s leg. He settles for a friendly hand on his shoulder instead.

With that they wrap up, all shaking hands with the perpetually grinning blond man. “I am pleased to take on the role of your manager, and I can’t wait to hear the new material.”

 

——

 

They’re all much too tired to celebrate now so they part ways, promising each other a night out on the upcoming weekend. Graves is dying to get back to his apartment, his bed, but the first line of business is getting Credence a decent winter coat. He’s already shivering against the wind in the denim jacket Graves had bought for him, and the older man is certain that any other jacket the kid owns can’t be any better. So they go for a walk, only ten minutes to East 57th where the Burberry outlet is located. Graves puts an arm around the boy, keeping him close against the cold. 

The store houses a beautiful array of menswear and Graves would love to see Credence model their entire stock, but it’s getting late in the day and he’s tired and hungry and wants to get home as soon as possible. So he scrutinizes the winter coats, sticking each rejected style back on the racks while Credence looks on, skeptical. 

Then — on display on a mannequin in the back, a black trench-style coat, wool cashmere, fitted and sleek and warm. “That one,” Graves tells the sales associate. “Perfect.”

 

Indeed, it is perfect. It fits Credence without need for tailoring, clinging in the right spots and floating loosely in others. The jet black of the wool makes him look even paler, otherworldly, ethereal. Graves presses him against the door of the dressing room when the associate steps away, kissing him deep, hungry, tongue pushing into his mouth. The boy’s eyelids flutter, he reaches up and clings to Graves’ collar. The older man steps back, eyeing him greedily. “You are a vision, my boy.”

The coat comes out to over two thousand dollars. 

“Maybe we should wait til I get my money from the deal,” Credence mumbles, “So I can pay for it.”

“I’m paying,” Graves says with a sigh, “No arguing. Remember?”

“But I have money now,” the boy insists, “You don’t have to buy — I’ll pay you back. Okay?”

“Nope!” Graves sets the coat down on the countertop. His voice lowers as the associate removes the tags from the coat. “I told you, Credence, I’m going to take care of you. And you’re going to let me.” He addresses the girl at the counter who’s wrapping the coat up, starting to place it in a bag. “Oh, no, he’ll wear it out. Thank you.” 

He puts it on the boy himself as they stand out on the sidewalk, slowly and carefully, buttoning the front and circling the belt around his waist. “Look,” he tells him, forcing Credence to meet his eyes. “Once you get your money, if you want to buy me gifts, feel free. But I want to buy this coat for you, Credence, because I want you to be warm. And I want to buy you other clothes too, and food, and gifts, and anything you want. Okay?”

Credence nods jerkily, looking away, down the street. The wind whips his curly hair around his face. 

“We’ll take a look at those forms once we get home, fill them out and make sure we get paid.”

“Um, right.” Credence falters, “I meant to talk to you about that. I don’t exactly have access to my bank account.”

“What do you mean?” Graves frowns, glancing down the street, raising his hand to hail a cab.

“My Ma,” the boy says nervously, “She controls everything. I can get it, though. I’ll just have to call her.”

“You want me to talk to her?” Graves holds the door of the cab for Credence, sliding in next to him in the backseat and giving the driver his address.

“No,” Credence says quickly, “No, it’s okay. I should talk to her anyway. I should go see Modesty.” 

Graves tries not to laugh at the mention of his sister’s name. A real fuckin’ nut, that mother. Oh well, if she gives Credence any trouble, Graves will storm down there himself. Maybe bring a couple dozen lawyers with him. 

 

Credence is staring out the window of the cab, bundled in his new coat, hair still a little dishevelled from the wind. Graves watches him carefully. He thinks about kindergarten. About sitting around a table and drawing, doing puzzles on the floor mat, running around with wooden swords playing knights and pirates with other kids. He wonders if Credence ever did these things, ever felt the pure and simple pleasure of friendship, of playing games. Or if a smaller Credence sat alone on the playground, no winter coat, face painted just as melancholy as it is all these years later. Learning to be lonely. Learning to live without expectation.

_I wish I’d known you when I was a child,_ he thinks. _Maybe things wouldn’t have been so hard._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love sugar daddy graves so much heheh
> 
> as always, [ catch me on tumblr ](http://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The towel drops: a crimson wave, blood and softness, pooling around his feet._
> 
> \--
> 
> Credence and Graves go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here it is!! the final chapter. thank you guys for all your sweet comments, i have fallen so deep into this universe and there is more of this story coming very very soon <3
> 
> [ REBLOG](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/177527893175/i-wear-your-melodies-around-my-neck-the-server)
> 
> [reminder: there's a playlist for this fic if you want to listen along to the songs that inspired it](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/177326617050/i-wear-your-melodies-around-my-neck-fic-playlist)
> 
>  
> 
> as always: [ tumblr ](http://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com)

Graves puts on a record as soon as they arrive, shattering the eerie silence of a home that hasn’t been lived in for nearly two months. He flicks on a few lamps, lights the autumn-scented candle on the kitchen table. A little better.

Credence stands awkwardly in the middle of the living room, guitar case slung over his back, carrying his two bags stuffed full of clothing and books Graves had bought for him on the road.

“You can put your guitar in the music room,” Graves tells him, a hint of an order, “and then go to the bedroom. There should be an empty dresser next to the closet. Fold up all your clean clothes and put them in there. Anything dirty, put in the laundry basket and I’ll take it down and wash it later.” Credence looks relieved at the direction, hurrying off down the hallway.

Graves sinks into the plush leather armchair with a sigh. As much as he loves travelling and playing shows, it is always nice to return home, to have a consistent bed and shower and chair to sit in. He takes out his phone, looking forward to scouring his Google alerts, a sucker for reading the comments. Before he can, though, he receives a rapid fire succession of texts from Tina.

 

_Do not let Credence go online._

_Seriously Percy this is bad_

_Is he around? Can you call me?_

_WHERE ARE YOU???_

 

The texts are all sent within five seconds of each other. Graves can barely tap his message out before he sees that she’s typing again.

 

_He’s not in the room but he’d hear me. What is going on???_

 

Her response is simply a link to a blog post on an anonymous account. He clicks on it, dread building steadily as the page loads.

What he sees makes him drop his phone. It clatters to the hardwood floor, the loudest sound he’s ever heard, reverberating around the room.

“Everything okay?” Credence calls from the bedroom.

“Fine,” Graves says weakly, fumbling to pick his phone up. Cracked again, but who fucking cares. Absolutely nothing matters right now because displayed on his 5.5 inch screen, in full colour and high definition, is Credence — naked, wrists bound above his head, lip bleeding. Eyes hooded, barely open. Legs folded to the side, hiding the most tender parts. He looks drugged. Delirious.

_Macusa’s boy wonder has a dirty little secret._

Graves can’t read past the first line of text. The words blur, run together, nothing makes sense. He clicks the power button. Sets the phone down on the table beside his chair. Gives himself one moment, one single moment to breathe.

“Credence?” 

The boy emerges, that lopsided little smile that Graves has grown to adore present on his face. “Yeah?”

“Come sit.”

He looks a little confused but he does, curling up in the corner of the large grey couch, looking at Graves expectantly. 

Graves hesitates. “Credence, I need you to stay calm. Can you do that for me?”

The boy’s eyes widen. “What? What’s going on?”

“Credence,” Graves repeats in a warning tone, “I need you to promise me you will stay calm.”

“Percy, please tell me what’s happening,” Credence whispers.

“There’s a picture,” Graves winces, “It was—”

Credence’s face crumples. He knows.

“Look, Tina’s on the phone with Sera and Langdon already, we’ll get this taken care of. I promise. But Cre, baby, I’m not worried about a stupid fucking blog post or the handful of people who saw it. I need to know what was happening in that picture.”

The boy buries his face in his hands, breath coming out harder and harder, shoulders heaving.

“Credence…”

“ _No_ ,” he wails, practically hyperventilating now, short breaths coming rapidly. “I can’t—"

Graves jumps up and Credence folds himself into the couch. He’s crying, fists pummelling his knees, shaking his head. “Leave me alone, please, I—"

“Calm down,” Graves says firmly, “Breathe, in and out…”

“I _can’t_ ,” Credence shouts, and Graves has never heard him lose control like this, sobs wracking his body, hitting himself hard on his bony knees, face wild and terrified.

“Credence, you’re having a panic attack. It’s okay. I need you to breathe.” Graves changes his tone, speaking in a hushed, soothing voice, kneeling down next to the couch. “Please, baby. Come on.” 

Slowly, slowly, Credence’s sobs turn to hiccups and his fists stop moving, resting protectively around his chest instead. His breathing decelerates and Graves puts a hand on his forehead before standing up and returning to his chair. “Come here, Credence.”

He gestures to the space on the floor in front of his chair. Credence looks on for a second before following the order, folding himself at Graves’ feet. Graves places one hand reassuringly on the back of the boy’s neck and he bows his head, still trembling. Graves silences his incessantly buzzing phone with a flick of his finger.

“When you’re ready, I want you to tell me what happened.” Graves keeps his voice calm, warm. The boy nods jerkily and it takes another five minutes of slow breathing before he speaks.

“That first night, when I… when I didn't come back to the hotel,” he sniffles, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand, “I was with Gellert. We were talking, about Ilvermorny and the music I write and — he gave me, you know, some drinks. And then I felt really weird, and I wanted to go back to our room, but he kept telling me it wasn’t safe, I was too drunk so I had to sleep there. I was so dizzy and I felt like I was underwater, like I couldn’t move, and then — and then he kissed me, that was the only time, and he told me if I let him have me that night that he would record my songs and get me out of that church for good. At first I didn’t know he took a picture. But when I tried to stop meeting with him he started threatening me.”

Graves resists the urge to sigh into his hands. The classic fucking story, the seedy famous frontman who promises the world to some young and naive hopeful who doesn’t know any better. Always at a price. “Credence, I don’t think you were just drunk. That sounds like he gave you something.”

“Like what?” The boy looks up finally.

“Like a date-rape drug.”

The boy blanches. “He didn’t — he didn’t do, you know, _that_ to me. But I… he asked me to. With.” He looks at Graves pleadingly, voice weak. “With my mouth.”

Graves shakes his head, fist clenching on the side of the armchair, other hand still running through the boy’s hair, pacifying. He thinks of that dreaded morning, Credence stepping through the door. Pale, nearly blue, eyes looking dead, face hollow. Voice so hoarse, scratchy. “We’re going to get him for this, Credence.”

“What did it say?” He asks quietly, “With the picture.”

“I don’t think you should…” Graves starts. Credence’s eyes flash.

“It’s me, isn’t it? You can’t protect me from this, Percy, it’s already there. I need to see it.”

Graves unlocks his phone, ignoring the droves of text messages from Tina, Newt, Sera. He can deal with those in a minute. He opens the page back up, heart sinking at the rapidly growing hit count. _4976._ This couldn’t have come at a worse time.

_Macusa’s wonder boy has a dirty little secret._

_When Credence Barebone, son of Mary Lou Barebone who runs a humble and charitable church in New York City, isn’t playing guitar in his boring, tasteless new band, he’s off doing much more interesting things. Secret faggot, a disappointment to his mother and an affront to God, he sucks more dick than any pop star in America. On stage he may hide behind his boyfriend, insipid bassist Percival Graves, but with a couple shots in him you can see that he loves the cameras._

Credence hands the phone back silently, wrapping his arms around his bent legs and burying his face in his knees. For a long time he doesn’t speak. They sit, both frozen, both barely noticing that Graves’ phone is still ringing in a perfect, endless rhythm. Finally he says, very quietly: “Ma doesn’t know that… that I’m gay.”

“She can’t hurt you anymore, Credence,” says Graves, rubbing the boy’s tense shoulders.

“You said that about Gellert, and look where we are,” he retorts. Then he looks up apologetically. “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry.”

“I’m going to call Sera,” Graves says gently, “How about you go take a shower?”

He goes, eyes downcast, looking so small. Graves dials Sera’s number and she picks up after two rings.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Percival, did you throw your phone out the god damn window? We’re all going fucking crazy trying to get this taken down.”

“Yeah, and I’m over here dealing with the real human being who’s in that picture,” he reminds her, “How’s it looking?”

“It’ll be down in a matter of minutes. If this was Gellert, he’s no technological genius.” She laughs quietly. “I really didn’t expect to have to deal with your band’s first scandal already, it’s only my first year of law school. Your parents own a law firm, Graves, really. Please call them next time.”

“Really hoping not to get them involved in this one,” Graves mutters, then adds: “I appreciate it, Sera. I trust you. And I’m certain it was Gellert.” He glances at the bathroom door; he can hear the shower running. “Credence is really worried about this. Is there any way it could get out again?”

“Jesus, Percy, I mean…” Sera sighs. “You know how the internet works. Five thousand people saw it, five thousand people could have saved it. They could re-upload it. The guy I know — you’re gonna have to deal with the bill, by the way — is good, a real wizard with this stuff. He said he can put a track on the image itself and basically have it obliterated any time it shows up on the web. But who knows.”

“Thanks, Sera,” Graves murmurs, “I’m gonna call Tina and Newt.”

“I’m not your lawyer,” she reminds him. He hangs up.

Tina answers immediately and adds Newt to the call. Graves lets them do their shouting and accusing for a few minutes before he speaks. “Please don’t bring this up to Credence ever again, okay?”

“The photo’s down,” Newt informs them, “Can’t say much for the people who’ve already seen it, but apparently there’s an algorithm in place that will prevent it from being re-uploaded. Or rather, it'll be flagged and deleted right away.”

“How did this happen, Graves?” Tina hisses.

“You know how this happened, Tina,” Graves says curtly. He hangs up the phone.

Though he and Tina have bickered their way through fifteen years of friendship, never in his life has Graves been truly angry with her. Now, though, he is angry. Angry with Tina and her easy dismissal of the fact that Gellert is a psychopath. Angry with Newt and his innocent naivety, pretending everything’s okay all the fucking time. Angry with Credence and how easily he trusts, how much he gives of himself without question. Above all, though, he’s furious with himself. He had shut the door in Credence’s face, denied his affection, sent him straight into Gellert’s waiting arms.

 

The bathroom door opens and Credence emerges. Tall, slender and wrapped in a towel, stark and blood-red against his smooth white body. His hair is pushed back, damp curls hanging just below his ears, dripping slowly into the hollows of his collarbones. 

This boy, so timid and small and helpless. This boy, so brilliant and talented and beautiful.

Graves stands up slowly, not quite able to close his mouth. So quickly, so unexpectedly the hysteria is gone, the panic has settled and the room feels smaller and smaller. It shrinks until no floor exists but the seven steps between Credence and himself, no ceiling and no walls, suspended in a single breath. The fear and desperation have left the boy’s expression, leaving in their place what resembles something close to contentment. Peace. Graves takes a slow step forward and the corners of the boy’s lips quirk up, just slightly. Just enough.

“Credence,” he whispers. _In awe. In worship._ “I love you.”

Credence's eyes widen for a split second, just barely, before narrowing back into their serpentine gaze, sparkling in the light. The towel drops: a crimson wave, blood and softness, pooling around his feet.

“Take me to bed?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone wants to throw around headcanons or chat about this story my [ tumblr ](http://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com) inbox is always open!
> 
> i know it's a bit of a cliffhanger but you know i couldn't end this without gellert returning and fucking with their lives - stay tuned for the next instalment <3


End file.
